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THE HUNTING FIELD 
WITH HORSE AND HOUND 



I THE 

HUNTING FIELD 

WITH HORSE AND HOUND 

in America^ the British Isles 
and France 



BY 

FRANK SHERMAN PEER ^ 




Illustrated from paintings by 

JULIAN INGERSOLL CHAMBERLAIN 

and from photographs 



MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
NEW YORK MCMX 



Copyright igio by 
Mitchell Kennerley 




CI.A259820:-f- 

V 



TO MY SON SHERMJN 

WITH FOND RECOLLECTIONS OF GLORIOUS 

DAYS WE HAVE ENJOYED TOGETHER 

HUNTING, SHOOTING, YACHTING 

AND BOATING 



CONTENTS 



Preface 



PART I 
HUNTING IN AMERICA 

I Fox Hunting in America 17 

History of fox hunting — Introduction of English fox- 
hounds — Private packs — Brunswick Fur Club — The Nor- 
folk — The Middlesex — The Meadowbrook — The War- 
renton country — The Rose Tree Hunt 

II Fox Hunting in the Sunny South ^^ 

Hunting dogs in the South — Politics and fox hunting — 
Visiting a Southern plantation — A Southern sportsman of 
the old school — Jim 

III A North Carolina Fox Hunt by Moonlight 43 

The meet — A little gossip on the way to covert — Befo' 
the wah — Jim's account of the chase — Old Rastus — The 
glory of Old Ginger — A mint julep 



viii Contents 



PAGE 



IV Fox Hunting in New England 56 

Uncle Abner — A genuine sportsman of the real old sort — 
Two famous bird dogs — A sail — Shooting the fox — 
Apples and cider 

V With Horse and Hounds on the Western Plains 6^ 

Jack Rabbit — Coyote and wolf hunting — The sporting 
parson — Western ways — A thoroughbred sportsman 

VI Jack Rabbit Hunting with Greyhounds 72 

*'In the beginning" — Messrs. Bartel Brothers' famous 
pack — The most beautiful dog show on earth — Coyote 
hunting at Colorado Springs 

VII Coyote Hunting on the Plains of Colorado 83 

The great plains at sunrise — Ranch life — The antelope 
chase — The old cattleman — A good shot — The ride of 
the tenderfoot — Roping a coyote 

VIII The Genesee Valley 97 

The valley itself — Nature of the land hunted over — The 
natives — Why they love the valley — A visit to the kennels 

IX A Day with the Genesee Valley Hounds 109 

The meet at Belwood — The Hunt breakfast — The 
Covert — Seven Gullies — Who-whoop 

X Hunting in Canada 117 

Plenty of sport — Our neighbours — A Canadian sports- 
man — Yachting — The Toronto Hunt Club — Women 
riders — A sportsman's paradise 



Contents ix 

PAGE 

PART II 
HUNTING IN THE BRITISH ISLES 

XI Hunting in England 125 

Packs of hounds — Hunting Centres — Cost — Grass 
countries — Racing packs — Foxes — Where to go — National 
characteristics 

XII A Day with the Belvoir Foxhounds 136 

The Peacock Inn — Belvoir Castle — Belvoir Kennels — 
Noted huntsmen — Perfection in hound breeding — Ben 
Capell 

XIII Two Days with the Ouorn (First Day) 148 

The famous grass countries — Hunting centres — Railway 
travel — The Bay Mare Inn — Hiring a hunter — A blank day 

XIV Two Days with the Quorn (Second Day) 195 

Richard the Bay — The meet — The chase — The brook — 
Colonel Richardson 

XV The Royal Buckhounds 169 

King Edward III — Queen Anne — The Church and the 
Chase — The meet at Ascot — The great assemblage — 
Queen Victoria — The Prince and Princess of Wales 

XVI A Day with Lord Rothschild's Staghounds 179 

New Year's Eve in London — The fog — The meet — 
The crated stag — Enlarging the stag — The chase — The 
capture 



X Contents 

PAGE 

XVII The Chase of the Wild Red Deer in Devonshire 191 

The Devon and Somerset Staghounds — Lorna Doone's 
country — The Quantock Hills — The meet — Anthony 
Huxtable — The Tufters — The Chase — Taking the deer 
— A long ride home 

XVIII The Chase of the Hare 203 

The hare — The old and the new school methods — Long 
live the Chase — Foot Harriers 

XIX Foot Beagles 212 

School and College Foot Beagles — The Delapre Hall 
Beagles — A day with an Oxford College "Cry" — Com- 
parison of English and American college sports 

XX Otter Hunting 226 

The otter — Nature of the game — The otterhound — 
His great courage and endurance 

XXI A Day with the Essex Otterhounds 235 

The meet — The terriers — Hound music — A great day's 
sport — Love-making — How English sportsmen are ac- 
counted for — Tally-ho otter — The obliging millers 

•XXII Fox Hunting in Ireland 246 

The Irish hunter — His breeding and schooling — The 
great Dublin Horse Show — Buying a hunter 

xxiii A Day with the Meath Hounds 253 

Tipperary — Difficulties on the way — An exciting drive — 
The meet — In an Irish bog — A couple of lost souls 



Contents xi 



PAGE 



XXIV Fox Hunting in Scotland 263 

A day with Farmer McDougal — A bit of Scotch humour — 
Wee McDougal — A few Scotch stories — Too late for the 
meet— The race of his life — Bonnie Scotland forever 



PART III 

HUNTING IN FRANCE 

XXV Hunting in France 279 

The nature of the game — Baron de Dorlodot — The 
kennels — The Forest of Senouches 

XXVI The Chase of the Wild Boar 287 

Locating the game — The covert side — The start — The 
chase — Hallali! — The ceremony 

xxvii Wild Stag Hunting in France 294 

A day with the Marquis de Cornulier's French hounds — 
Taking the stag in a lake — A most exciting day's sport 

xxviii A Day with the Marquis de Chambray's Hounds 299 

The white hounds of the King — Starting the lordly stag — 
A Percheron staUion in harness — Hallali! Hallali! — The 
1908th stag — In defence of the chase 

Ride, Fair American: Englishman, Ride 316 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



PAGE 



At Bay in Horner Water Frontispiece 

A. Henry Higginson, Esq., M.F.H 20 

R. N. Ellis, Esq., M.F.H. 22 

The late P. F. Collier, Esq 24 

Mr. P. F. Collier's staghounds 24 

Mrs. James K. Maddux on Torchlight 26 

The meet 30 

The Meadowbrook hounds 30 

Col. J. Chinn and Mr. H. S. Walker 2^ 

The two colonels 44 

Uncle Abner's novel fox hunt • .... 60 

Colonel Roosevelt 70 

Almost 76 

Mr. Nichols' Greyhounds: the meet 80 

Poor Mr. Coyote 84 



Xill 



xiy List of Illustrations 



PAGE 



The author with the first kill 84 

In Colorado: the meet 84 

Ready to start 88 

Croesus 88 

After the kill 88 

Mr. E. J. Cameron with a roped coyote 94 

Mr. Petrie's hounds : the kill 94 

Major W. A. Wadsworth, M.F.H 102 

Mr. Herbert Wads worth's home 104 

Future hunters and their dams 104 

A meet on the lawn no 

Major Wadsworth's home no 

Dr. F. J. Capon 118 

The Montreal Kennels 118 

The Toronto pack 120 

Sir Gilbert Greenall, M.F.H 138 

The Duke of Rutland 14^ 

A crush to get through 142 

Ben Capell, Huntsman 142 



List of Illustrations xv 



PAGE 



Belvoir Castle 146 

Belvoir Dexter 146 

Puppies 150 

The Quorn Pack " 15a 

The Earl of Lonsdale, M.F.H 156 

A meet at Kirby Gate 162 

The field moving ofF 162 

Richard the Bay at the brook 166 

Lord Rothschild and Mr. Leopold de Rothschild . . .180 

John Boore, Huntsman 188 

Giving the stag "law" 188 

The Devon and Somerset staghounds 192 

Opening meet near Minehead 196 

Delapre Abbey foot beagles 214 

Cambridge University "cry" 220 

Eton foot beagles 224 

Otterhounds 228 

Huntsman leading the pack . . . , 232 

The Essex Otterhounds e . , 232 

Trying a likely stream 238 



xvi List of Illustrations 



PAGE 



Helping the ladies across 238 

The Master and his pack: 242 

Catching the scent 242 

The kill . 244 

Terriers hanging from otter . . 244 

Baron de Dorlodot 278 

The Boarhounds 280 

The Dorlodot Hunt 282 

Ready for the chase 284 

The return of the hunt 288 

The grey boar's last stand 290 

Singing the death song 292 

The Marquis de Cornulier's Staghounds 294 

Stag taking to water 296 

Waiting for the end 298 

The Marquis de Chambray 300 

A meet in the forest 302 

Hounds ready to be slipped 304 

Waiting 2^6 

After the death 308 

Blessing the hounds . • 312 



PREFACE 

Blessed be the thoughts and recollections 
That drive the ills and cares of life away. 
While they bring again serene reflections 
Of all the joys we had along the way. 

CROSS Country with Horse and Hound" has proved a 
happy disappointment, especially to the author. 
There being but few hunt clubs in America, it was argued 
that there were comparatively few who were personally 
interested in cross country riding to hounds; it was therefore 
with some misgivings that the book was brought to light. 
The effort, however, has received such hearty endorsement 
from the reading public in general, and has had such pleasant 
things said about it by the hunting fraternity in particular, 
both in England and America, that the writing of this second 
work has become doubly enjoyable. It may be said to have 
been undertaken in response to an encore. 

Next to a cross country ride itself, comes the pleasure of 
living it over again with whoever has the ear for hearing it, and 
an imagination keen enough to supply what neither pen nor 
pencil is able to produce. 

There seems to be born in every man a taste for country 
life and in most men a love for the chase. We probably 
inherit our longing for the fields from our mother Eve, whose 
desire to return to the garden must have been very great, 
so great in fact, that the world will never stand long enough 
to see it eradicated from the system of her descendants. 
It is from the "old man" perhaps, who was obliged to hunt 
for a living after losing his farm, that we inherit a desire for 



10 Preface 

the chase. This taste for country life and the chase is, in 
many cases no doubt, lying dormant in the system. It simply 
needs awakening to inoculate the whole being with an insa- 
tiable thirst for the field, the wood, the chase. 

The kindly reception of "Cross Country with Horse and 
Plound" would indicate that many a soul is tuned to the 
melody of hound music, and the spirit of the chase, that never 
heard the one, nor participated in the other. No author can 
have greater pleasure than the thought that in many such he 
may have awakened a sentiment that will burn with a will. 
If so, the sequel is near at hand, for where there is a will the 
way is not far of finding; if not in whole, in part. Hunting, 
yachting, shooting, fishing, it will surely find a vent somewhere 
and somehow. 

"The Hunting Field with Horse and Hound" is really 
volume No. II to "Cross Country with Horse and Hound." 

It is the hope of tliis volume, as it was of the one preceding 
it, to encourage a love for country life, to create anew in many 
dormant natures, a taste for manly games of sport, especially 
for men after they have left school and college, and also to pro- 
mote the chase, that "noble science," formerly called the sport 
of Kings, but which may nowadays more properly be styled 
the King of sports. 

Not alone is it the object of this book to hunt with horse 
and hound in different lands. A fox chase, for instance, is a 
fox chase the world over, and if all there was to fox hunting 
came out in the chase, the description of a single run would 
answer the purpose, all the others being fox chases ditto. The 
interest found in fox hunting with the different packs of 
hounds and in different countries we shall take the reader to 
\isit, lies principally in the people and not in the game or the 
hounds. Especially is this true of fox hunting in the New 
England states and the sunny South, wliile in Ireland and 
Scotland we must not miss the native sparkle of the one nor 



Preface 11 

the delightful humour of the other. If the writer shall succeed 
in transmitting to these pages the spirit of the chase, the breath 
of the fields and the aroma of the forest, and shall uncover 
sufficiently the hearts of some of the true and noble sportsmen 
it has been his good fortune to meet, this work will have 
accomplished its purpose. If, on the other hand, it can be read 
without leaving in the reader's mind anything beyond a ride on 
horseback while racing after a fox, or other game, then is the 
writer's failure complete. 

Past masters in the art and science of hunting will please 
bear in mind that the writer is but an amateur, and that he 
comes, not to save the men and women who are already in the 
field, but to convert the heathen, to preach the gospel of true 
sport and genuine sportsmanship, and to hunt for the real 
joys to be found in hunting; viz., pleasure, health, strength, 
and long life, which are vouchsafed to all who worship at 
its shrine. 

Hunting is about the only stimulant that leaves no scar. 
It is about the only indulgence to which we may turn, that 
does not come back to plague and torment us; it is the best 
remedy through manhood and age, that can be relied on to 
lighten the heart, drive away sorrow and fortify us against 
the disappointments of life, and to postpone to the latest 
possible date the sending of our wills to probate. 

In recording herein the accounts of some glorious days 
with horse and hound, as they still live in the recollection of 
the author, he has selected such as give the greatest variety 
to the chase, both at home and abroad. The account of the 
two days with the Quorn, and a day with the Devon and 
Somerset staghounds in England, have appeared in the 
"Country Gentleman" and "Rider and Driver." Portions of 
the other chapters have appeared in "Harper's Weekly" and 
the "Sporting Illustrated News." By kind permission of the 
editors, they are with slight modification reproduced herewith. 



12 Preface 

The day with the Genesee Valley hounds is, in reality, part of 
the three days' sport. All other days are faithful records of 
the chase, with the hounds ridden to, with possibly the least 
bit of colour now and again in connecting the events. The work 
is believed to cover every class of game ridden to with hounds, 
besides foot beagles, foot harriers and otterhounds. 

Again the writer takes pleasure in caUing upon his old 
friend, W. Phillpotts Williams, for hberal quotations from his 
delightful "Poems in Pink" and "Rhymes in Red," and the 
immortal Somervile, who so often came to the writer's rescue 
in his former volume, when his own pen was "up a stump" for 
the right thing to say. 

Some of the chapters which stand next to each other in this 
book were written fifteen years apart, most of them were 
thrashed out during the time spent in ocean crossings between 
1891 and 1906. This probably accounts for some chapters 
having a list to port and others to starboard, while still others 
alternately head for the bottom of the sea or a star at meridian. 
They may be like a clock, the great temperance lecturer, John 
B. Gough, was fond of telling about, i. e., when its hands 
pointed to twenty minutes past eleven and it struck four "the 
owner" said he "knew it was just one o'clock." So with these 
chapters, it matters little where they point or how they strike, 
as long as the reader understands they point to clean sport and 
strike for true sportsmanship. 

It is with great pleasure that the author is able to present 
herewith six full page reproductions of oil paintings, done 
especially to illustrate the text, by the clever horse and hound 
artist, Juhan Ingersoll Chamberlain. Whatever may be said 
for or against their artistic merit, all hunting men will enjoy 
them for their true hunting spirit and the life-like action of 
both horses and hounds. To the numerous Masters of hounds, 
clever huntsmen and brother sportsmen both at home and 
abroad, who have done so much to make this volume possible, 



Preface 13 

the writer simply goes into bankruptcy; his debts of gratitude 
can never be paid. 

It is singular in looking back over the twenty odd years 
which this and the previous volume cover, how all the "blank 
days, all the cold, rainy, disagreeable days," are quite for- 
gotten, the days when for some unaccountable reason we 
were unable to get on good terms with our mount, the days 
when we had to work our passage from start to finish of the 
run, steering or trying to, some hard-mouthed ill-humoured 
brute. 

Yes, it is singular how these unpleasant, these disagreeable 
dkys are quite forgotten, and that it is only the best and really 
glorious days that live on to cheer and brighten. This is just 
as it should be. It is such days as are herein recorded that 
make the blood canter again at the sound of galloping hoofs. 
It is the recollection of such days as these that in spite of 
grey hairs and rheumatic twitches — makes one feel all over 
young again. An affection for the chase, especially riding to 
hounds, invariably deepens in the hearts of most hunting men 
with increasing years, until the sight of a matronly-looking 
mare makes them quite as solicitous as a father for his ex- 
pectant first-born, while a foal at foot of their favourite hunt- 
ing mare makes them as foolish as a grandfather in his dotage. 
The author does not speak from personal experience of this 
latter condition, but he feels it coming on, and judging from 
those who have gone this way before him, he is getting there 
all too fast. 

Well, let it come and may the setting sun shed its parting 
light on no meaner or less cheery picture than recollections 
of "The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound." 



PART I 
HUNTING IN AMERICA 



To 

Maj. W. A. Wadsworth, 

M. F. H. Genesee Valley Hunt. 

'Hold hard for a moment, the hounds are collecting. 
Old Benedict speaks, how they fly to his cry! 
The thought of the chase all our senses inflecting. 
We wait in the hopes of a sweet by and by" 

Poems in Pink. 



FOX HUNTING IN AMERICA 

HISTORY OF FOX HUNTING INTRODUCTION OF ENGLISH FOX- 
HOUNDS PRIVATE PACKS BRUNSWICK FUR CLUB — THE 

NORFOLK THE MIDDLESEX THE MEADOWBROOK THE 

WARRENTON COUNTRY THE ROSE TREE HUNT. 

"C^OX hunting in America began — well, to be accurate, "In 
-'■ the beginning," or as the old time historians were fond 
of saying, "at a time in the history of the nation to which 
the memory of man runneth not contrary." If foxhounds did 
not come over in the Mayflower, it was very soon after. At 
any rate they were introduced into Virginia by the earliest set- 
tlers. British army officers brought hounds with them to this 
country, as they have done to every other country to which they 
have been sent, whether their mission was one of peace or war. 

Many persons in both the southern and New England 
states are fond of repeating to this day family traditions 
to the effect that some progenitor at some time brought, or had 
sent over, to this country, a few English foxhounds, or "hunt- 
ing dogs" as they were generally termed. 

In England they originally hunted with mixed packs. The 
southern or bloodhound, that hunted entirely by scent, was 
depended upon to drive or follow the chase in the thicket, 
while the speedier greyhound, which runs entirely by sight, 
took a hand when the game was driven into the open. The 
crossing of these two ancient families with a view of producing 
a combination dog with speed, nose and tongue, developed the 
present Enghsh foxhound which, at the time of the first im- 
portations to this country, must have been a family with 
anything but a fixed type. 

This country was so large and people lived at such great 



18 Tlie Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

distances apart, that instead of packs of hounds being hunted 
by organised clubs, individual ownership became the rule. 

This individual ownership of hounds in America is still the 
rule, except on special days like Thanksgi\ang, election day, 
Christmas or New Year's, when all the neighbouring hounds 
are brought in to some town or farm agreed upon for a general 
hunt to be followed by a dinner, or a dance, or both. 

There are, of course, a good number of organised packs 
of hounds in America, hunting with either English or Amer- 
ican hounds, that hunt on regular days throughout the season 
after the English custom, but the great fraternity of fox 
hunters in America are confined to private or individual packs, 
which probably number among the thousands. Then there 
are a few semi-organised packs that are hunted with some 
regularity and are somewhat under control of an appointed 
9r recognised huntsman, as in Lexington, Kentucky. I refer 
to that most prominent hound breeder of the blue grass 
country. Col. Roger Williams. When his pack goes out and 
is heard giving tongue, every hound from every plantation 
within hearing joins in by his own invitation (of course he is 
welcomed), and although his independent methods of hunting 
make him an ungovernable member of the pack, — 

^'He joins the glad throng 
That go racing along. 
For he must go hunting to-day." 

Next to Kentucky, there is probably no keener lot of fox 
hunting men than is to be found in New England. The casual 
observer would never suspect it, but a httle inquiry among the 
rival towns will show that "the woods are full of it." 

Among the organised hunt clubs of New England the 
Brunswick Fur Club, an organisation that was started as an an- 
nual fox hunt, but of late years has come to be a hound show with 



Fox Hunting in America 19 

field trials, brings together a very large number of fox hunters, 
hound breeders and fanciers with representative hounds of pri- 
vate packs from Virginia, Kentucky and even South Carolina. 

The Norfolk Hunt at Medfield, Massachusetts, is one of 
the smartest up to date hunt clubs of New England. The 
genial M. F. H., Mr. Henry Vaughan of Boston, has devoted 
much personal attention to the organisation and the building 
of a very attractive club house. A better stud of high class 
heavy weight hunters it would be hard to find in any American 
Hunt. Mr. Vaughan hunts a drag pack, also a wild fox pack, 
so there is something doing nearly all the time. The hunts- 
man is a man of great experience in kennel management and 
a nailer to follow when hunting the hounds. The hunt is over 
rough stone walls and timber country. 

The Myopia Hunt at Wenham is to Boston what the 
Meadowbrook is to New York. The writer has no personal 
knowledge of this club, but its reputation has gone far and 
wide, especially as one of the wealthiest hunt clubs in America, 
and as "money makes the mare go" they have certain ad- 
vantages perhaps over their less favoured rivals. 

The writer's ideal sportsman is the man or woman who 
knows the game from A to Z. He would eliminate ever^^ 
pastime from the list of sports that did not begin and end in 
the skill and prowess of the sportsman himself. A man who 
rides his own racehorses is a sportsman, the man who races 
horses with a jockey may be a sport, but he is no nearer to 
being a sportsman than a person who pumps a pianola is to 
being a musician. The man who sails his own yacht is a sports- 
man, the man who togs out in yachting clothes, because he has 
a steam launch and a hired man to run it, may pass for a yachts- 
man, but not for a sportsman. Motoring, except racing 
between owners who drive their own cars, may be called recrea- 
tion, but it is too much of a tax on imagination to call it sport 
or the owners sportsmen. 



20 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

It must not be inferred from the above that there are no 
genuine sportsmen among wealthy Americans. While wealth 
seems to be a great handicap to sportsmanship, many men in 
our country are justly entitled to the distinction in spite of 
wealth, and furthermore, the writer believes the hunting field 
affords more numerous examples of this than any other 
American sport. 

For instance, the blood of some good old British sportsman, 
after lying dormant for many years, has lately come to hfe 
with the freshness of spring in the person of Mr. A. Henry 
Higginson, Master of the Middlesex Hunt, who resides at 
South Lincoln, some eighteen miles west of Boston, Mass. Mr. 
Higginson is not only the proud possessor of one of the best 
packs of English Foxhounds in America, but better still, he 
has caught the true spirit of hound breeding and has given the 
subject his personal attention. Beginning some ten years ago, 
Mr. Higginson tried many experiments with beagles until in 
1903 he felt ready to undertake the main object he had 
always had in view, the formation of a really A No. 1 pack of 
hounds. 

The Middlesex Hunt is favoured with a good class of 
landowners, who welcome the riders and hounds over their 
fields. A gamekeeper is employed who spends much of his 
time in looking after the young foxes that are raised in the 
Middlesex territory and in stopping their earths prior to a 
day's hunting. This makes it possible to kill, and this is 
essential, for it is certainly very discouraging to hounds, if not 
to riders, to go out day after day and season after season for 
this purpose and never to accomplish it. 

If you want a good time all the time, pay a visit to the 
Middlesex Kennels. A walk and talk with Cotesworth, the 
huntsman, when he goes out to exercise the pack or when 
feeding his forty odd couples of most promising puppies, will 
surely be accounted a treat, for there is probably not a better 




A. HENRY HIGGINSON ESQ., M. F. H. 



Fox Hunting in America 21 

posted or more experienced huntsman and hound breeder in 
America. It is a well grounded notion in America that we 
cannot breed foxhounds with the bone, style and carriage as 
seen in England. This, as the writer has always maintained, is 
a mistake, and it is a great pleasure to see the success that Cotes- 
worth is having in developing these qualities at the Middlesex 
Kennels. It is also most gratifying to know that the Amer- 
ican-bred hounds from imported English sires and dams are 
showing a greater inclination to work out a cold line than either 
their sires or dams. This goes to prove quite conclusively that 
it is possible that the fault with the English hounds brought 
to tliis country is not so much a question of nose which prevents 
their following a cold line, but indifference or lack of inclina- 
tion to hunt such a line. Of course it amounts to the same 
thing, so far as producing results, but the writer has long been 
of the opinion that it is not so much the noses of English-bred 
hounds that are at fault, as that never having been called upon 
to do such plodding work in England as is necessary in this 
country, they quit, not because they cannot follow the hne, 
but because they won't. 

We are offered a good illustration of this at Middlesex. 
The hounds bred there from English parents work with more 
persistency than the best of the imported ones. 

Mr. Higginson's great stud dogs, Vaulter and Vanguard, 
in conformation at least, are very superior foxhounds. Their 
wonderful depth of body and lung capacity, great bone and 
muscle, as indicated by the size of the forearm, almost fault- 
less feet, together with grand carriage of the head and stern, 
make them hard ones to beat. Vaulter's measurements are 
as follows : height from flags to breast between forelegs, twelve 
inches, height at shoulders twenty-five inches, height of body 
at stern twenty-five inches, girth of forearm eight and one-half 
inches. If these measurements are compared with those of the 
great Gambler, that Gillard pronounced the most perfect 



22 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

hound ever produced in England, it will be seen that Vaulter 
comes very near to fitting the scale. Be that as it may, he is a 
very grand specimen. 

Mr- J. I. Chamberlain, who was referred to in the preface, 
designed Mr. Higginson's kennels, which possess so many 
valuable features. Not only is the Master to be congratulated 
on the up-to-date manner in which he has equipped the Middle- 
sex Hunt establisliment, but the great fox hunting fraternity 
at large is under lasting obligations to him for the interest he 
has taken in hound breeding. The writer believes his exertion 
in this particular, will prove the beginning of a competition in 
hound breeding among masters of hounds in America that will 
not only add greatly to the interest of fox hunting, but elevate 
the standard of the American bred hounds, be they of Ameri- 
can or English descent, to the same exalted position which 
they enjoy in England. 

The Meadowbrook Hunt, with kennels at Hempstead, 
Long Island, has a wide reputation among the society folks 
and is on that account often spoken of as "the Swagger Hunt 
of America." 

While under the mastersliip of that most' gentlemanly all 
round sportsman, Mr. Ralph EUis, it was the writer's good 
fortune to visit the country for a few days and to participate in 
the chase. 

The Meadowbrook was in those days a drag hunt, pure 
and simple, but since then through the efforts of some real 
hunting spirits, a pack of English bred hounds were imported 
for hunting the wild red fox with which that portion of the 
island has been liberally stocked. The writer, however, only 
speaks from his personal experience with the club as a drag 
hunt. Although this style of riding to hounds can, by no 
stretch of the imagination, be called hunting, it has the ad- 
vantage of insuring the members, most of whom are business 
men in town, a sure gallop every time they go out. 




R. N. ELLIS ESQ., M. F. H. 



Fox Hunting in America 23 

While the club has often been ridiculed by New York city 
papers, nowhere in America, or in the world, let us hope, can 
any other hunt club be found riding to such stiff timber fences, 
and nowhere in America at least that the writer has ever 
ridden, except in the chase of the coyote and Jack Rabbits with 
greyhounds on the open plains, is the pace as fast as it is with 
the Meadowbrook draghounds. 

It is simply a cross country steeplechase with a racing pack 
of hounds instead of a flagged course to lead the way. The 
writer will never forget his first flight over those post and rail 
fences. He was mounted on Mr. C. A. Steven's "Doctor," 
a son of Macbeth, whom the writer had reared and schooled in 
the Genesee Valley. A most powerful jumper. 

The meet was at the beautiful club house adjoining the 
kennels at Hempstead. There were at the hunt more pink 
hunting coats and high silk hats in evidence than could be 
collected among all other hunt clubs in America. It made a 
very pretty sight which would have been a credit to any of the 
fashionable packs of the famous grass countries of England, 
appointments perfect and the best lot of hunters to be found in 
a single hunt in the United States. At the meet "Doctor" 
moped about, and in company with horses, mostly clean thor- 
oughbreds, he looked and felt more like a lumbering farm horse 
than a hunter. In this respect he was the most deceptive horse 
the rider ever owned. To see him going to a meet you would 
think he was being ridden home from a day's ploughing. To 
see him going at his fences when hounds were ahead of him, 
you would say that he was the most resolute, spirited charger 
anywhere to be found, bold, determined, straight going, and 
the cleanest timber jumper a man ever rode. "Doctor" never 
hesitated or wavered. His inspiration, however, seemed to 
come from the hounds, for as an exhibition jumper, he was 
not even ordinary. 

We had hardly left the club house when the hounds broke 



24 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

away and were off like the crack of a gun. The Doctor and 
his mount were not expecting trouble to begin so soon and 
were quite behind, but not for long. The Doctor always 
jumped clear of his fences in the Genesee Valley, but in the 
Meadowbrook he left the first half-dozen fences with feet 
instead of inches to spare. There was no steadying him down 
to them. He took them all flying in true steeplechase form. 
Mr. Stevens promised the writer the ride of his life and he 
had it, but he felt Mke the girl who said after her first ride 
down the toboggan slide at the Quebec Ice Carnival, "I would 
not have missed it for a thousand dollars." "Then ride again?" 
"No, not for two thousand." Those can laugh who will at the 
swagger Meadowbrook, but if those who laugh would follow 
that hunt over stiff Long Island fences, they would find they 
had no heart or face to laugh, for the chances are their hearts 
would be in their mouths and their faces in the dumps. 

At any rate, the writer has a most profound respect for the 
pluck and nerve of the men who ride and the courage and 
endurance of the horses that carry them across the Meadow- 
brook country. 

The late Mr. P. F. Collier, editor of "Collier's Weekly," 
and M. F. H., of the Meadowbrook, a sportsman through and 
through, kept a grand pack of English bred staghounds at 
his country home in New Jersey. Mr. Collier rode at about 
two hundred and fifty pounds, which meant his hunters must 
not only be above ordinary but extraordinary as to weight, 
bone and muscle, and so they were in this respect. They looked 
the pick of Ireland and very similar to the noted heavy weight 
Irish hunters in the hunt stables of Lord Rothschild, or his 
brother, Mr Leopold de Rothschild, at Tring, and Leighton 
Buzzard, England, where we shall attempt to take the reader 
in a later chapter. 

This stag hunt is unique, in that the stags to be 
hunted are the large white-tailed deer, which he had collected 





^*^« i. 



THE LATE P. F. COLLIER ESQ. 




MR. P. F. COLLIER S STAGHOUNDS 



Fox Hunting in America 25 

for him in Texas. Instead of keeping these in a small en- 
closure, as is the usual custom abroad, where they hunt the 
crated stag, these animals, eight or ten of them, are kept in 
a large-sized field, partly natural forest. Every day a collie 
dog is taken into this enclosure and gives them all a good chase, 
the object being to keep them hard and fit for running. They 
have a small paddock adjoining the one they are in, into which 
they can jump after they have been chased. They soon learn 
that this particular enclosure is a harbour of safety and usually 
return to it of their own accord. 

On a hunting day a stag, instead of being carted and driven 
to a meet and there "enlarged," is liberated from a shed in the 
main enclosure and sent away by the collie dog for six or eight 
miles in any direction he may choose to take. The collie is then 
called in and after an hour or so the hounds are brought out 
and are cast into a covert in the most natural way for finding 
a stag, independent of the known point at which he entered 
the covert. In case of failure, of course, the huntsman can 
always lift hounds onto the known line of entrance to the 
covert. When the hounds pick up the trail and the chase is on 
the stag leads them a merry gallop for ten or fifteen miles, but 
when the hounds begin to press him too hard for comfort and 
he tries one or two streams or ponds of water as a means of 
throwing them off, it finally occurs to him that there is in the 
world at least one harbour of safety, i. e., the little paddock 
adjoining his enforced enclosure and to this he flies with the 
unerring judgment of a homing pigeon. When he arrives 
there he finds a place in the high fencing let down for him. A 
servant is on the lookout to close it after him. The hounds 
race up to the spot where the stag entered the enclosure and 
are suitably rewarded with a "worry" of fresh meat, provided for 
the occasion. The riders who have been able to follow are there 
to cheer them as they eagerly devour their reward. The chase is 
over, the day is done, after which the hounds are kenneled, and 



26 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

riders and horses go to their well earned repast and rest. 

There are some special features about hunting in Virginia 
that distinguish that country from all others. Especially is 
this true about hunting in Warrenton. 

If you are not a judge of "horse flesh" or if you cannot talk 
horse sideways and backwards morning, noon and night, take 
the writer's advice and keep away from Warrenton. They 
have got the horse fever down there and badly. The only 
difference between Warrenton, Va., and Lexington, Ken- 
tucky, is that at the latter place they talk horse and breed 
them, as they make and take their whiskey, straight; but in 
Virginia they sing it with variations. That's not all, "the 
Virginia horses themselves are so well schooled," says Mr. 
Maddux, the well known M. F. H. of the Maddux Fox 
Hounds and also Master of the Warrenton Drag Hunt, "that 
many of them can speak in several foreign tongues." Here- 
with is a full page illustration of Mrs. Maddux on her cele- 
brated grey hunter. Torchlight. It is evident from the photo- 
graph that Mrs. Maddux is also most proficient. She sits her 
horse to perfection and her hands, with slackened bridle reins, 
show her a cross country riding artist and a past mistress in 
the science of negotiating fences. 

The writer had a most dehghtful visit at the charming 
country seat of Mr. and Mrs. Maddux, and a day with Mr. 
Maddux's hounds over a grand hunting country, but he caught 
the horse fever, therefore he talks horses in this chapter. He 
can't help it; they say that after his visit to Virginia, he 
talked horse in his sleep. 

The one thing in Virginia that most impressed the writer 
was the bone they are producing in their hunters. It certainly 
looks as if Virginia was destined to be the coming hunter- 
horse-breeding centre of the United States. At least it is not 
at all venturesome to predict that from Virginia is to come the 
Irish hunter of America. 



Fox Hunting in America 27 

The writer can hardly close this chapter on hunting in 
America without calling attention to the special features of at 
least one other hunt club, the Rose Tree Hunt. 

A thirty minutes ride from Philadelphia on the Pennsyl- 
vania R. R. landed the writer at Media, a mile and a half from 
the Old Rose Tree Hunt Club. A bus soon had him at the 
club house, where he was made welcome by a few of the mem- 
bers who were putting up there for the night. 

The club properly consists of a beautiful farm of about 
75 acres, over which is laid a steeplechase course, on which the 
club holds a race meeting every fall for the entertainment of 
its members and the farmers over whose lands they ride, and 
for the country-side at large. These meetings are old time- 
honoured events and are attended by a large number of people 
from Philadelphia, Baltimore and the surrounding country. 
The club house is an old-fashioned Colonial mansion, fitted up 
to meet the requirements of the members. There is no attempt 
made at display; the house is a model of comfort and conven- 
ience and is beautifully adapted for the purpose for which 
it is now being used. Also on the grounds are stables with 
ample accommodation for horses and a first class kennel 
equipment. 

To toast one's shins on a cold winter's night before the 
hunt club fireplace, with such venerable men as Henry E. 
Saulnier, the president, and J. Howard Lewis, vice-president 
of the club, is indeed a treat. The former is now (1905) in 
his ninety-sixth year and the latter is in his ninety-first year. 
Both of these gentlemen give fox hunting the credit for keep- 
ing their wills from going to probate. 

In chasing the fox they have Hterally outridden Father 
Time, who sharpened his scythe and started after them nearly 
a hundred years ago. 

I will never forget hearing these two dear old fox hunters 
talk over their hunting days of forty or fifty years ago, how 



28 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

this one came a cropper over a stone wall at Edgemont and 
how some other one got the brush after a four hour run with 
snow on the ground, and a hundred and one reminiscences 
which they love dearly to relate of days gone by. Mr. Saulnier 
is unable to ride any longer or to take any part in club affairs, 
but Mr. Lewis still retains a lot of liis old time vigour and now 
in his ninety-first year he can be seen almost every day riding 
his favourite saddle horse in Media or going to and from the 
club. 

Emanuel Hey, one of the directors of the Rose Tree Hunt, 
is a true sportsman of the real sort and did much to make 
the writer's visit to that club sometliing to recall with pleasure. 

"Only a few years ago," said Mr. Hey, "I jokingly said 
to Mr. Lewis, then in his eighty-sixth year, 'I would like to 
gallop my horse against one of yours.' 'All right,' replied 
Mr. Lewis, 'you can do it any day you please. How would 
the afternoon of our next monthly dinner suit you?' " 'That 
would suit me all right,' replied Mr. Hey, thinking that would 
be the last he would hear of the matter. Not so Mr. Lewis; 
he was there on the hour and demanded the race. Mr. Hey 
suggested that some one of the younger men ride Mr. Lewis' 
horse as he did not want to take the chances of the old gen- 
tleman being hurt or fatigued. To this Mr. Lewis, full of 
his old time sporting fire, rather tartly rephed, 'You challenged 
me to ride you a race and I'll ride this horse myself or he 
don't start. Now then, are you going to ride this race with 
me or back down?' " 

It was a race over the club's course, a mile and a quarter. 
Mr. Lewis won in a punishing finish by half a length, amid 
the shouts and throwing of hats by the lookers on. 

The Rose Tree Hunt Club claims the honourable dis- 
tinction of being the oldest organised hunt club in America, 
dating from 1859. The characteristic feature of the club is 
that they hunt with the old style American hounds with long 



Fox Hunting in America 29 

ears and deep voices. These hounds seem especially well 
adapted to hunt that part of the country. In colour they are 
"Ring streaked and speckled," nevertheless they are as fine 
a hunting pack of hounds as one would care to see. With such 
an old hunt club it would be a pity ever to depart from this 
style of hound. The pride in the hunt is the fact that they are 
preserving as nearly as possible the original American type of 
hounds, and all other customs and traditions of ye olden times. 
May they never change it for more modern notions, but pre- 
serve it forever without taint or tarnish. As the years go on 
this feature will become more and more interesting and as such, 
it would be a shame ever to destroy it. 

Another dehghtful old time feature which the club 
members are most assiduous in preserving is a monthly supper, 
"On the full of the moon," not only during the hunting season 
but for every month in the year. Pennsylvania farmers have 
always been noted for their sacred observance of doing im- 
portant things on the full of the moon — "hog killing," "barn 
raising," and many other events of the year. Agreeable to 
this time-honoured custom the members of the Rose Tree 
Hunt come together thirteen times a year when the sign is 
right. They also say that the man in the moon is the proper 
one to get full on these occasions and saves a lot of big-headed- 
ness, which makes such a difference, especially the next 
morning. 

Not only do these Rose Tree sportsmen entertain them- 
selves in this most delightful manner, but they do not forget 
the farmers, to whom they are beholden for the courtesy of 
crossing their land. Twice a year at the beginning and closing 
of the season, they give them a dinner, the members of the club 
putting on aprons and waiting upon their guests, — millionaires 
and farmers, railroad presidents and gardeners. It is the most 
democratic club I have ever visited. 

The writer has had a good deal to say about class and 



30 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

snobbishness among American sportsmen. It is indeed a pleas- 
ure to find a club like the Rose Tree, practising true democracy 
as a democratic people in a democratic nation should. It is as 
delightful as it is simple. It is at least the writer's idea of what 
a thoroughbred American sportsman is hke. Long Hve the 
Rose Tree Hunt, to preserve and transmit examples of un- 
adulterated Americanism, pure American hospitahty and true 
American sportsmanship. 

This club hunts nothing but the wild fox, of which there 
are fortunately plenty. The club rules forbid the use of the 
hounds for drag hunts. It is a hunt club pure and simple ; the 
best of good fellowship prevails; the farmer and his son are 
welcome guests at the club house and in the runs, where every 
man is on an equal footing. Visitors are always welcome and 
one is always sure of a good day's sport. 

The writer rode out with the Rose Tree Hounds from the 
kennels for a short run. As there was snow on the ground 
the hounds were somewhat slow in finding, and as the writer 
had made an appointment with John Valentine, M. F. H. of 
the Radnor Hunt, to spend the afternoon with his hounds, 
he was obliged to quit early in the day. As luck would have it, 
he missed the hunt of the season with the Rose Tree, as will 
be seen from the following letter, which he received a few days 
later from Mr. Hey, who gives such a dehghtful description 
of the run, that it would be a pity to omit it from these pages. 
It reads as follows : 

My Dear Mr. Peer: 

You may regret as long as you live missing the experience 
of last Saturday. After you left us, we had one of the most 
enjoyable days to hounds it has ever been my good fortune to 
get into. 

We left the kennels as you know, about eight, and started 
for the west Chester Barrens, a covert about five miles from 




THE MEET 




THE MEADOWBROOK HOUNDS 



Foao Hunting in America 31 

the club house, having a look at all the coverts on the way. 
Our huntsman, as you remember, cast his hounds into the 
"Barrens" and "the field" located on the lower edge. I beheve 
it was at tliis moment that you left us. What a pity! If you 
had waited another few minutes you never could have been 
torn away by anything short of instant death. Presentlj^ the 
hounds began making the most beautiful music a hunting man 
ever heard, when right out before us, not a hundred yards from 
"the field," came two foxes. Of course we were wild and most 
anxious for the hounds to get onto their game. The snow 
frozen just hard enough to carry the fox and hounds, and we 
were afraid the scent would grow cold. Our huntsman and 
hounds did not appear for quite awhile and some of the "thresh- 
ing devils" began to get worked up. But our good huntsman 
knew his business like a book, the hounds continuing to make 
the woods ring — when all at once out comes "INIr. Fox" number 
three, and not two minutes after him our huntsman and the 
hounds all bunched in the prettiest shape I ever saw. This fox 
took a direction north of the other two so there was no con- 
flicting scent. The snow just kept the hounds from going too 
fast and no one knew it better than "Bre'r Fox." He ran us 
back and forth between the Barrens, Westtown school, and 
Poplar Hill until four o'clock, when he holed. We viewed him 
at least fifty times, in fact, there was hardly a time during the 
hunt that he was more than a field or two ahead of the hounds 
and many times much closer. We covered during the run, I 
suppose, fifty miles, but the going was so fine and the pace so 
steady that it did not kill our horses like an hour's run at a 
steeplechase clip with a few checks thrown in. It was not a 
day for "thresliing devils," but the day for the man who enjoys 
hunting for the sake of the hunt, to see the individual hounds 
work, first this one and then that one in the lead, etc. 

Pardon the length of this, but it is a day I shall never for- 
get. I will never get tired of thinking and talking about it, 



32 Tlie Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

and my only regret is that you and all other good hunting 
men who hunt for the love of the sport were not in it. It 
was without doubt the best day I ever had to hounds and I 
have followed the game for a great many years. 

Yours truly, 
Emanuel Hey 



A southern sportsman of the old school I see — 
A perfect gentle7iian horn. 
He knows a good horse and loves a good hound. 
He likes a mint Julep wherever it's found. 
And a m^oonlight ride with the horn. 

II 

FOX HUNTING IN THE SUNNY SOUTH 

HUNTING DOGS IN THE SOUTH — POLITICS AND FOX HUNTING 

VISITING A SOUTHERN PLANTATION=r^A SOUTHERN SPORTS- 
MAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL — JIM. 

ONE may safely say there is hardly a plantation south 
of the "Mason-Dixon" line, and east of the Mississippi, 
where one could not find a few dogs which are principally 
devoted to fox hunting. 

In a personal letter from Col. Roger Williams, of Lex- 
ington, Ky., he says "there are 100 counties in Kentucky 
and each had from two to twenty packs of hounds and two- 
thirds of the farmers without packs own two or more hounds." 
Many of these so-called hounds are nondescript mongrels, 
but they can hunt. Some of them are as good at opossum as 
they are at fox. They will "trail" the former by day, the latter 
by night, and in either case give good sport, especially when 
one comes to know the game, and appreciate it from a southern 
sportsman's point of view. 

The Southerner, be he poor white, negro or one of the 
"first families," is a born hunter. Fox hunting in the Southern 
States is not an occasion for dress or display of any kind except 



34 The Hvmting Field With Horse and Hound 

good horsemanship. The whole question, as a rule, begins and 
ends with the hunting qualifications of the hounds. 

It does not seem to matter much which end of the dog the 
tail is on, so long as it does not interfere with his nose, his 
tongue, or his staying qualities. He may not have meat 
enough on his bones to keep them from rattling; he may have 
a chronic case of the mange, and a flea for every hair; but as 
long as he does not stop to scratch the one or hunt the other 
when once he strikes a trail, no matter. As may be imagined, 
there has been developed or evolved in the Southern States a 
race of dogs — one can hardly call them hounds — ^that for pure 
hunting qualities and endurance have no equal in any country. 
There are a few careful breeders, who have a little regard for 
type or family characteristics, but as a rule there is the greatest 
diversity among southern dogs that go under the name of 
"American hounds." 

What the southern sportsman dwells on mostly is the 
fact that his hound can start a fox in the morning, "trail" 
him, as the expression is, all day and all night, come home to 
breakfast the next morning with the pads of his feet worn 
through, have something to eat, take a nap behind the kitchen 
stove, then start out again of his own accord to "trail" for 
another day and night. This is the kind of animal they are all 
striving after, that seems to be the sum total of excellence in 
the so-called American hound. It is not at all strange, there- 
fore, that in the question of nose and endurance these dogs have 
no equals. 

Nor is it any wonder that a dog whose ancestors have been 
brought up in this particular school should hunt or trail all 
around the best English bred foxhounds, who usually make 
a sorry display of themselves when put to a similar test. 

The writer saw in a fox hunting pilgrimLge through the 
Sunny South many dogs that did not have a thing about them 
to distinguish them from common mongrels. "Hunts herself 



Fox Hunting in the Sunny South 35 

to death," says the proud possessor, "can't keep her at home." 
There is sure to be added, to an account of her great trailing 
qualities, "There is not a better hound in the state, no matter 
where they come from." The writer never met a man in all 
his travels, or while living for a time in the South, who did not 
have among his dogs at least one that was "the best in the 
state." 

Pardon for dwelling over long on this point, but no one 
can understand what fox hunting means in the South until 
this question of hound requirements and hound management 
is disposed of. Even where these two requirements in a hound 
are developed to perfection, and where fox hunting is the uni- 
versal sport of the country, it is a very rare thing that these 
hounds overtake and kill their game. That's not at all essential 
to the happiness of a southern sportsman. The prime object 
is to see hounds hunt and listen to the "heavenly music." The 
owners know the country, and the habits of the foxes chased 
from certain coverts, so well that the moment hounds give 
tongue in any particular wood, the owner rides to a certain 
point where he may view the chase as it goes past. Having 
arrived at the point ahead of the game, he lights his pipe, and 
waits and listens to his hounds. When finally he hears them 
coming, he says "That's Old Barter," or "Claw Hammer," 
as the case may be, whichever hound seems to be leading, for 
each one is distinguished by its voice. The sound grows 
fainter, and you suggest "The game is going the other way." 
"No," replies your host, "he has only made liis usual double 
back, and will be passing here in the next ten minutes." 

Many of the keenest southern fox hunters prefer to hunt 
by moonlight, because the music carries farther in the stillness 
of the night. Again this is the time foxes are always on foot. 

When fox and hounds have passed a given point, our host 
rides to some other point where he is nearly certain the fox will 
pass again in making back towards the place of starting. It 



36 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

is astounding how seldom southern fox hunters are at fault in 
placing themselves. Again he puts fire to his corn-cob pipe, 
and awaits events. When he has had enough of this, and it 
sometimes takes all night to satisfy him, or he thinks his hounds 
have had all they ought to do for one night, he toots his cow 
horn and calls them in. The older ones generally obey, but if 
they feel like playing truant, and going on with the game, on 
they go, getting in for breakfast or at any time of night, or 
the next day which marks the limit of their endurance. 

This may be said to be the general principle on which fox 
hunting is carried on throughout the Southern States. This 
would not please our English friends. A ride to hounds in 
England that does not include a kill is generally looked upon 
as something of a farce. The writer, who was brought up after 
the English style of riding to hounds, naturally prefers that 
way. He wants to say, however, that he has hunted enough 
in the Southern States to become thoroughly interested in the 
game, and believes for the nature of the country and the game 
and the hounds that it is the best adaptation of the sport to be 
had, and he can readily understand, if he lived in that country, 
and owned hounds, he would certainly do as the Southerners 
do. Only he would go in more for looks, and style and char- 
acter, in hound breeding, which he believes can be maintained 
and improved consistently with the southern requirements of 
nose and endurance. 

The better to illustrate a fox hunt as conducted in the 
South, it may not be amiss to take the reader to visit an old 
southern plantation, and devote a day to the game as it is 
played throughout the Southern States. Having introduced 
the reader to the southern hound, southern foxes, and the 
general methods of pursuing the chase, it only remains to 
present the southern sportsman himself. This probably can 
best be accomplished by taldng the reader to visit the home of 
a southern gentleman of the old school — one who still breeds 




^*^r*t^ %»'' 



Fox Hunting in the Sunny South 37 

and hunts his own hounds, as in the palmy days "befo' the 
wah," when plantation life was at its zenith, and southern 
chivalry was in flower. 

Although those good old plantation days are greatly mod- 
ified or have disappeared altogether, and although a victorious 
army freed the slaves, devastated the land, and ruined the 
people financially, there was one thing that could not be 
destroyed, one custom more powerful than a president's 
proclamation, one thing an invading army could not demolish, 
or poverty put to flight; i. e., the hunting instinct of the 
Southern people. That at least remains. It had been bred 
into the bones ; it runs in the blood ; like the spots of a leopard, 
it cannot be changed. 

As a southern hound fancier once told the writer, "Every 
poor man could keep at least one hound, and every d — poor 
man could keep two" — and most southern sportsmen after the 
war trained in the latter class. 

It is not uncommon for a politician to stump the country, 
going from town to town with his pack of hounds, making 
speeches in the evening and closing with an invitation for 
all to meet with his hounds the next morning for a day's hunt- 
ing. The following evening they are at the next village to 
repeat the speech and invitation. 

The following interesting letter from Colonel Roger 
WilHams of Lexington, Ky., dated June 25th, 1905, says: — 
"Richard Redd, a noted fox hunter, was elected assessor of 
Fayette County, for many years in succession. He always 
canvassed with his pack of hounds stopping over night with his 
constituents and hunting in the neighbourhood. 

"For several nights before election his hounds ran drags 
through the country. In some instances the drag was laid in 
the front yard and even onto the porches of the voters as a 
reminder. 

"The present State treasurer of Kentucky," adds Col. 



38 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

Williams, "is a young man and ardent fox hunter. He was 
the only man not on the State ticket to be elected. He can- 
vased the entire State, stopping only with fox hunters in 
each county and hunting with them. He carried his election 
by the largest majority ever given to a candidate for the office 
in the State." 

While living at Asheville, North Carolina, in 1887-8, the 
writer made the acquaintance of several southern sportsmen 
of the old school. 

"Come down and see us," said one (whom we will call Col. 
Thorpe). "We will give you a genuine North Carolina 
welcome, a taste of our best corn whiskey, and a day's fox 
hunting that will put you on good terms with all mankind, — 
especially the brethren.'' 

Through some misunderstanding, the writer arrived by 
a train ahead of the one on which he was expected, and of 
course there was no one at the station to meet him. Wliile 
inquiring the way, from a gentleman at the station, a negro 
went galloping past in grand style, and at a speed calculated 
to turn the blackest nigger boy in the place green with envy. 

"Heah, you nigger! You yellow nigger on the boss! you 
come heah! !" shouted the gentleman. 

Finally after repeated motions and hallooing, the rider 
and his beautiful thoroughbred mount came sidling up to the 
curbstone. The grin on the boy's face, as he urged his hes- 
itating mount to within ordinary speaking distance, was so 
great and full of satisfaction, that but for his ears to check 
it, it would have opened the top of his head like a syrup pitcher. 

"Look heah," said the stranger, "Is that Col. Thorpe's 
boss?" 

"I reckons hit is, boss." 

"What you doing riding him like that for?" 

"I jes' done exercise him a little." 

"Exercise him!" roared the stranger, "You're sure enough 



Fox Hunting in the Sunny South 39^ 

riding that hoss to death. — See heah. This yher gentleman 
wants to go to Col. Thorpe's. You just jump down, and let 
him ride that hoss home. You heah, and if I see you riding 
that hoss any more like that, I'll suht'nly tell the Colonel." 

The writer remonstrated. A mettlesome thoroughbred 
covered with perspiration, and a jockey saddle, was anything 
but inviting. So it was finally settled that the jockey should 
stay up, and pilot the writer to a place on the "pike" where 
he could "cut cross-lots" to the plantation. Then the jockey 
would ride on to say he was coming. 

"Massa dun 'spect you," said the jockey, apologising, 
"but he'll be pow'ful glad to see you. Yes, Sah. He sure dun 
know you am a-comin', else he sure have been heah to meet 
you," etc. — until the writer was convinced beyond question no 
slight in hospitality had been intended. 

Presently, when crossing a field beyond a piece of timber, 
the plantation buildings came in sight — a modest two-story 
house, with a wide veranda in front, and with great fluted 
columns supporting the roof that projected over the second 
story, a style of architecture very popular throughout the 
South, and the one best suited of all for a plantation house 
set upon a rise of ground, as this one was, some distance 
back from the "pike." .Of course the house was painted 
white. 

The numerous detached out-buildings, the slave's quarters 
before the war, were now occupied by coloured servants, pigs 
and chickens. These one-story white-washed out-buildings 
formed an oblong enclosure, that might be called the back 
yard to the mansion. This yard is usually given up to the 
chickens, ducks, turkeys, dogs, and negro children, with 
possibly a cosset lamb or two, a lame pig or a pet calf. Thisr 
farm nursery is presided over by some old coloured servant, 
usually a woman, whose management is seldom questioned, 
and whose rule is law. 



40 The Hu7iting Field With Horse and Hound 

How home-like and inviting it all looked. As the writer 
came up to the front yard, all the dogs came down to meet 
him, together with a negro boy who shuffled along behind, 
grinning from ear to ear. 

"Is the master at home?" we inquire. 

"He'll be heah right smarth, I reckon. He'll be right glad 
to see you, Sah." 

By this time, the dogs had inspected the writer to their 
satisfaction, and had smoothed down their back hair as a sign 
that he might pass. With the darky boy in front carrying the 
grip, and the dogs, now wagging their welcome, we arrived 
at the house. 

In the meantime, we had been joined at a respectable 
distance by two or three negro cliildren. Old Hannah, the 
cook, — as one could tell by the fulness of her form — attracted 
by the racket the dogs had been making, came around the 
corner of the house, her hands folded under her apron, the 
whites of her eyes shut out by a corresponding large opening 
in the lower part of her face. Just behind her was a little 
ebony nigger, about three years old, holding on to the corner 
boards of the house, and sticking his head around to see what 
was going on. He was dressed in a single garment — a shirt 
that had evidently been made for liim when he was several 
years younger. His skin was so black and shiny as to suggest 
stove polish. Presently, liis mammy spied him and then the 
pair disappeared around the corner, the youngster howling 
lustily in response to the flat of his mother's bare hand on his 
shiny black trousers, or what would have been trousers if he 
had had a pair on. 

Just as the procession reached the lower steps of the porch, 
the front door opened, and the Missis and children were there 
to show their welcome. 

The dogs went into ecstasies about the Missis when they 
saw the wTiter was welcome, as much as to say, "See what 



Fox Hunting in the Sunny South 41 

we have brought you." We were soon seated in the parlour, 
the four dogs \ymg about Madam's chair. 

Madam was a fine and typical Southern lady, with a 
queenly way and natural dignity enough for the wife of the 
President of the United States. Her hair was grey but her 
face was young. Altogether, she had the stamp and carriage 
of a lady of great refinement and considerable culture. 

Tlie conversation turned to dogs. Nellie Ely was the 
favourite bird dog. She never flushed her birds, and was 
also a good retriever. Sancho, a hound, was a first class dog 
for trailing possum. He never told a lie. When he gave 
tongue, you could depend a possum was on foot before him. 
Dixy was a splendid rabbit dog by day, and would run a 
possum equally well at night. Jackson, a promising young 
setter, was pardoned for many short-comings on account of 
youth. 

Just as the history of this fourth dog was coming to an 
end, the host arrived, and a little later we all went out to 
luncheon. 

Colonel Thorpe, like his charming lady, was quite grey, 
with a very military bearing, sharp, quick eyes that were full 
of temper, a deep square-set jaw that gave the whole figure 
the stamp of resolution and determination. He wore a black 
frock-coat, no vest, slouched hat, riding boots and breeches. 
His heavy grey moustache and small goatee, added to his 
military carriage, made him look the real old war-horse he had 
proved himself to be in the War of the Rebellion. 

Jim, a fine, big, up-standing negro, black as the ace of 
spades, waited on the table. He wore a white short coat and 
apron, and carved the meat at a side-board. The lunch con- 
sisted of fried chicken, sweet potatoes, corn bread, rice 
pudding and coffee for dessert. 

"Jim," said the Colonel after dinner, "Just go over to 
Colonel Sacket's, and tell him we're going for a fox hunt soon 



42 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

as the moon comes up, and that we would like to have him come 
along with his hounds." 

Jim, who has a most contagious laugh, began to smile 
when the Colonel began to speak. He knew what was coming. 
His nose began to wrinkle, his eyebrows hfted. His ears 
began to wiggle Hke a mule that is getting ready to bray, and 
by the time his master got as far as "hounds," Jim could con- 
tain himself no more, and broke out with a chuckle that ex- 
ploded into a laugh which couldn't be stopped with both hands 
trying to hold it down. He rushed out into the kitchen, and 
there was a great ha-ha, followed by such a racket that Madam 
went to the kitchen to see what was the matter. She took one 
look; evidently with the intention of reproving Jim. She 
came back to the table, laughing. 

"Colonel, you will surely have to get rid of Jim." 

"What's the racket about?" asked the Colonel. 

"Well," rephed his wife, trying to look serious, "Jim kicked 
over all the chairs, just to give himself vent." 

"That nigger," interrupted the Colonel, "likes fox hunting 
as well as any hound I ever saw." 

"And," added his wife, "he was holding Hannah's baby, 
heels up and head down, making him walk on the ceiling like 
a fly, and Hannah was taking after him with the broom." 

"Old Hannah's enough for Jim," said the Colonel, as 
much as to say, "If Hannah is in command, no fear but that 
Jim will get all the punishment he deserves." 

Madam failing to receive any sympathy from her hus- 
band, gets in the last word with, "I do think Jim is about the 
worst mannered nigger we ever had on the place," but evi- 
dently she has been saying that ever since the beginning, and 
the Colonel lets it go without comment. 



He knows where the finest peppermint grows. 
He knows the right jug in the cellar. 
He knows his master is sure to exclaim, 
Jim, I guess we will have one of them 
Before we go in to our supper. 

Ill 

A NORTH CAROLINA FOX HUNT BY 
MOONLIGHT 

THE MEET — A LITTLE GOSSIP ON THE WAY TO COVERT — BEFO^ 
THE WAH — JIM^S ACCOUNT OF THE CHASE — OLD RASTUS — 
THE GLORY OF OLD GINGER-^A MINT JULEP. 

TTEAH comes Colonel Saekett," said Jim, sticking his head 
in the sitting-room door, and we all went out on the 
veranda to welcome him. There sat the Colonel on a beau- 
tiful horse, the ideal picture of an army officer. He, like my 
host, wore the conventional frock coat of the country, trousers 
to match, no waistcoat, and a broad-brimmed soft hat. He sat 
his beautiful horse to perfection. His full, grey beard gave 
him a very venerable look. He was called Colonel, as many 
other Southern gentlemen are, who look the role even if they 
never won the Eagles which denote the rank. His real rank 
during the war, which he entered as a private, was that of cap- 
tain. However, *' Colonel" fitted him better, as any one could 
see, and "Colonel" he was. As the ladies join us, the Colonel 
removes his hat, and remains uncovered, as the chivalry of 
the country demands. 

At a respectable distance sat the Colonel's old servant, 



44 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

"Rastus," (formerly his body servant) on a pony-built horse, 
a line in his hand leading to six uncommonly fine looking 
hounds. Hannah and three or four of her eight ebonies stood 
at one corner of the porch ; six or eight nigger boys and stable- 
men and plantation hands were looking on from the other 
positions about the grounds. 

Meanwhile, our own horses are led around into the front 
yard. Then up rides Jim, bigger and prouder than all com- 
bined, with six as nondescript looking hounds as ever wore a 
slip, crowding and straining at their lines, enough to pull the 
happy Jim, horse and all, wherever they wished. What a 
picture! The dignified Colonels, the laughing negroes, the 
eager hounds! 

Just as we were ready to start, a delegation of politicians 
drove in to see Col. Thorpe, and we were obliged to go with- 
out him. Col. Sacket taldng command. 

"Jim," called Col. Thorpe, "Oh, Jim." 
Jim rode up to the porch. 

"Now, Jim," said his master, "y^^ \ook sharp. Don't you 

let those Sacket hounds get the best of our Ginger (Col. 

Thorpe's favourite foxhound). If you can help her to lead 

fair and square, you'll be the best damn nigger on the place, 

but mind, if ever I heah of your doing any crookedness, you're 

a dead nigger, you heah me?" 

"All righ', Sah," rephed Jim, "I take good care 'bout all 

dat." "No dog war ever born what could head old Ginger," 

added Jim. 

"Marster wouldn't ha' missed this yher chase for five 

hundred dollars," said Jim as an apology for his master's 

absence. "It mus' be pow'ful 'portant business what keep 

him home when a fox hunt is on. Nothin' but death ever 

stop him afore. Wish we had gone fo' dem gentlemen come." 

Col. Sacket and the writer rode on together, while old 

Rastus with Col. Sacket's, and Jim with Col. Thorpe's, 



A North Carolina Fox Hunt by Moonlight 45 

hounds in leash came riding along behind. It was such a 
charming night, not a breath of air stirring! "Just the night 
for a fox hunt," said the Colonel. "I like night hunting best, 
it is still, and you can hear the hounds at a much greater 
distance." 

The hounds were finally liberated in a small bit of timber, 
and away they went, heads down, each one for himself as 
if hunting alone and all giving tongue as soon as the couples 
were removed. The lot of them would have been hung in 
England for babbhng, but this style of hunting gives no 
offence in the South. 

The writer will not attempt to describe the chase. It was 
his first experience after fox by moonlight, and in a strange 
wood he felt like a cat in a strange garret. 

The account of what happened, we will leave to Jim, and 
we copy as nearly as possible his description of the chase, in 
reporting the events of the evening to his master when we 
returned. 

Before we take up Jim's account, it will be quite necessary 
for the reader to know a few tilings that were imparted to the 
writer on the way home, after what Jim looked upon as the 
most eventful run he ever experienced, to say nothing of the 
part he played in it liimself, which surely would raise him to 
the enviable distinction, as his master said, of being "the best 
d — nigger on the place." 

"Marster'U sure 'nuff be pow'ful vexed with hisself that 
he dun see the glory of old Ginger this night." Thus began 
Jim, when we had said good night to Col. Sacket, and were 
headed for our plantation some ten miles away. This was 
about one o'clock in the morning. The beautiful full moon 
was just past the meridian. The hounds were in leash again. 
"Nice looldng lot of hounds, those of Col. Sacket's," sug- 
gested the writer, "but — " 

"Nice nothin'," interrupted Jim with great indignation, 



46 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

"dem ar houns no foxhouns 'tall, dey jus' orrinary possum 
dogs." 

It was an awful mistake. 

"I mean they are a nice looking lot of hounds, but of course 
they are not equal to Col. Thorpe's hounds trailing fox." 

"Well, I should say," replied Jim, the whites of his eyes 
rolling at me in great disapproval, so deep and so strong that 
every line of his face and figure looked it. 

Then Jim went on to tell how long "befo' de wah" this 
Thorpe and Sacket family fell into a neighbourly quarrel that 
almost amounted to a feud, and all on account of a fox hunt, 
and the question of whose hounds were the best. It seems that 
the fathers of the two present famihes, — as were their grand- 
fathers — were noted fox hunters and hound breeders. Rivalry 
therefore, in fox hunting, between the two families, was very 
keen. It seems on one occasion that the grandfather of the 
present Col. Sacket, and the grandsire of the present Col. 
Thorpe joined hounds in a fox hunt that led to a family 
quarrel. Each declared his hounds the better. 

"Well," said Mr. Sacket, "I would hke to have your hounds 
about an hour. I would dump the brutes in a sack with a 
stone in it, and throw the lot of them into the river." 

"Well, if I had your hounds," said the other, "I wouldn't 

even take the trouble to drown them. I'd have their d 

throats cut, and throw them in the soap grease." 

This was a slur on their being nice-looking hounds, and, 
to Mr. Thorpe's notion, carrying too much meat. 

Finally, it came on to rain, and getting under the lee of a 
straw stack for shelter, Thorpe said, "I'll pull straws with you 
to see who has the pleasure of killing the other's hounds." 

And then each proceeded to pull a straw, the one getting 
the longest one was to be the winner. Sacket won. 

"Now," said Thorpe, "I'll pull to see whether you take 
my plantation, or I yours. I don't care to live beside you 



A North Carolina Fox Hunt by Moonlight 47 

any longer, Sir. Neither of us will ever agree. I'll buy or 
sell." 

"I don't care either to buy or sell," said Sacket, "but I'll 
draw straws with yon to see who gives up his plantation to the 
other." 

Again Sacket won. 

"Now, Thorpe," said Sacket, "I have no use for those 
buildings. You are welcome to stay there as long as you like." 

"D you. Sir," cried Thorpe, "I am not a subject of 

youi* charity. Sir. I will move to my other plantation in Bun- 
corn county. Good-day." 

Well, he moved out, but in taking his niggers with him, it 
turned out that old Peter, the grandfather of Jim, took with 
them to the other plantation a bitch called Ginger. 

The present Ginger is her direct descendant. 

Then came the war. The elder Sacket was killed outright, 
and the elder Thorpe died in a northern prison. The present 
Col. Sacket and Col. Thorpe, although but boys, hardly sixteen 
at the time, also went to war. After the war, young Thorpe 
fell in love with young Sacket's sister. They married. They 
are the present Col. and JMrs. Thorpe. The present Col. 
Sacket and his sister being the only children, each shared alike 
in the property, the daughter selecting the old Thorpe home- 
stead, and this again brought the two families neighbours. 

"So the plantation where Col. Thorpe Hves," ventured the 
writer, "belongs to Madam." 

"No, Sah," said Jim, "she dun marry the Kunnel, and she 
and de plantation all belongs to de Kunnel." 

"Well, all right, go on." 

Both of the boys inherited their sires' passion for fox 
hunting, and the keen rivalry of old between the two families 
was renewed. Thorpe had the blood of old Ginger in his 
new kennels but the Sacket pack had all been stolen or dis- 
posed of. After the war young Sacket sent to England for 



48 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

some celebrated strain, and these with a lately imported Eng- 
hsh stud hound, formed the nucleus of his new kennels. 

This was the state of things when the writer paid a visit to 
Col. Thorpe. It is quite necessary the reader should know the 
foregoing for what is to follow, as well as to get a correct idea 
of tliis rivalry between hound breeders all over the Southern 
States. The fox hunt itself, so far as the hunting part goes, is 
of very minor account. The sport centres, not in the pursued, 
but in the pursuers. 

The above history of these adjoining packs is very similar 
to thousands of other packs all over the Sunny South. Gene- 
ration after generation had handed down the history and tradi- 
tions of these family packs until the war, when thousands of 
them were broken up (the houses and plantations as well). 
However, many of the old southern plantations survived, and 
have since been rebuilt, and once more the "heavenly music" 
cheers on the younger generation, in whose blood runs the un- 
quenchable fire and spirit of the chase. 

This coming together of the Sacket and Thorpe kennels, as 
the writer afterwards surmised, was principally on account 
of the writer's making a remark favourable to the English bred 
hound and that he wished to call on Col. Sacket, to whom he 
had a letter of introduction. Col. Sacket, as we have shown, 
was at the time using English blood. Col. Thorpe still swore 
by the blood of old Ginger. It was principally to convince 
the writer as well as to take Col. Sacket's English-bred dogs 
down a peg or two that the invitation was sent out for him to 
join us. This invitation, as the reader can now imagine, 
amounted to a challenge. 

For the description of the events of the night, we shall, 
as before stated, depend upon Jim. The writer rode here and 
there about the wood, with Col. Sacket, or was stationed by 
him at given points best calculated to see the run, or sat listen- 
ing on his horse, sometimes for half an hour, without hearing 



A North Carolina Fox Hunt by Moonlight 49 

a sound save the hoot of an owl, a whip-poor-will's call, or the 
crowing of a distant cock that mistook the moonlight night 
for the balmy dawn. Nevertheless, he enjoyed it all, the 
balmy air with its piny flavour, the aroma of the wood, nectar 
for the gods, and the glorious moonlight through the tree tops. 
What a perfect night! 

We were, as Col. Thorpe had prophesied, on the best of 
terms with all mankind, especially the brethren (fox hunting 
fraternity) . Add to all this, reader, please, if you can imagine 
it, the "heavenly music" of the hounds. How it rose and fell 
on the soft night air, sometimes dying down to a whimper, 
and then like the final chorus of a grand pipe organ, increasing 
in volume until it filled the forest, the fields and adjoining 
hills with echoing melody. 

It was at least three o'clock when we reached the house. 
We had no more than reached the door when Col. Thorpe, 
dressed in pajamas, came down to hear the news. 

"Oh, marster, but you ought to er been dar," cried Jim at 
the sight of his master. "Old Ginger done lead the pack." 

"Good," cried the Colonel, "tell me all about it." 

So Jim, having struck an attitude on the floor where want 
of chairs and tables gave him plenty of room, began, the Colo- 
nel, meanwhile, sitting on the arm of a chair, his face all aglow 
with expectation, anticipation and pride. If Jim had to tell 
how he won for him a million dollars, he could not have been 
more anxious. 

"Fust off," said Jim, "Rastus (Col. Sacket's old coloured 
man who handled his hounds) gave me a big sermon 'bout de 
Runnel's new hound, what he done fetch over from England. 
He say 'Yo old boneyard hounds am no good any mo', along- 
side de 'ported (imported) kind.' 'Rastus,' I say, 'You ole 
fool nigger, you jus' go long 'bout your business, fo' you head 
git so big it surely bust. Have you got any money yo' like to 
back your talk wid?' " 



50 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

(Here Jim assumed the air of a bloated land-owner with no 
end of money) . " 'Can meet you/ said he. 'All right, I bet yer 
my year's wages gin yourn you han't go no fox dog nohow, put 
up or shut up, and what's mo', dun you go fooling around 
Marster Thorpe's dogs, with none of yo' ole tricks, or I fills 
you so full o' lead, you sink on dry land.' " 

"Did you have a gun with you, Jim?" asked the Colonel, 
looking serious. 

"Deed I did, Sah. Ole Rastus play no salt meat game on 
dis nigger, no, Sah." 

Tliis referred to a trick laid to Rastus, but never proved; 
i. e., that he put a lot of corn beef in the w^oods for Col. 
Thorpe's hounds to find and gorge themselves on, so they 
couldn't run, keeping the Sacket hounds in leash until the meat 
was devoured. Of course, the Sacket hounds took all the 
honours. The incident stirred up a lot of bile and rile in the 
blood of both families, and although Col. Thorpe had married 
Col. Sacket's sister, the sore had never quite healed over to the 
present day. 

Jim's carrying a gun was strictly against the rule, and on 
any other occasion, he would probably have received a severe 
reprimand, and had the gun taken away from him, but the Col- 
onel was so anxious to hear about the "glory of old Ginger" 
that he let it pass. 

"Where did you throw in?" asked the Colonel, who evi- 
dently wanted to get Jim on to the trail without further ado. 

Then Jim told how he crossed this field, and that, and 
finally where they took the hounds to uncouple them. 

"Yes, excellent place!" cried the Colonel, shifting his seat 
on the arm chair, as if he were now settling himself in his saddle 
for a burst of speed when the hounds should jump their fox, 
and the heavenly music should come to fill the wood, and like- 
wise his heart. 

"Then," said Jim, "we hadn't long ter wait." "That's old 



A North CaroKna Fox Hunt by Moonlight 51 

England!" cried the Colonel, as one of his hounds began giving 
tongue. "I jus' laf," said Jim, "fo dat's no fox, nohow, dat's a 
possum, sure, cause ole Ginger she was right dah, and she dun 
say nothing about it. For shur I did laf, and I say I give 
ten y'ars my life if dem 'ported dogs take after a possum, 
an' disgrace themselves for life. 'Whar's you Ginger now?' 
said dat fool nigger Rastus, 'pears like she hain't got no nose, 
nohow.' 'See heah, Rastus,' said I, 'has yer been up to any 
crookedness? I just tell you right now, I got a gun for you, 
and I shoot you daid fo' you get out dis yher woods!' " And 
Jim drew his gun, and rolled his eyes, living over again his state 
of mind when he was between fear and doubt. 

"On went de hounds, and we were waitin' and waitin', when 
way off to the right o' de Sacket hounds, I heahs old Ginger." 

At this the Colonel cried "Good!" and Jim went into 
ecstasies again, like all his emotional race, as he lived the sensa- 
tions over. 

" 'Dat's ole Ginger,' I cried to Col. Sacket, 'your dogs only 
run a possum. Dat's ole Ginger, and you listen jus' a minute. 
Dun I tole you so,' sa' I, and shu' 'nuff all our dogs hark to 
ole Ginger ; not a dog of Col. Sacket's in the lot, and I was fit 
to die for joy." 

"Jim," said the Colonel, as if the news was too good to be 
true, "Jim, is that right?" 

"Dat is squar gospil true on de Bible. Col. Sacket can say 
no diff'rent." 

"Well," said the Colonel, to bring Jim back to the trail 
again, "What next?" 

"Of cose I wanted to git to ole Ginger but I wanted fust 
to see wid my own eyes de disgrace of dem 'ported dogs. By- 
n-by we heah ole Ginger a-coming, and yelping every time she 
hit the ground. She had shur turn dat fox to bring him back, 
so we could see the fun. On dey comes, offle fast. I could tell 
she war heating Mr. Fox's jacket mos' beautiful. On dey 



52 The Himting Field With Horse and Hound 

comes," cried Jim, "and dar" (pointing to the baseboard as if 
he actually saw the fox again, his eyes wide open, and his chin 
drooping with astonishment. The Colonel and the writer both 
looked more than half expecting to see a fox sneaking past) — 
"And dar, shu' 'nuff went past us Mr. Fox." The Colonel 
stood up the better to see the fox as he passed. 

"On came ole Ginger," continued Jim, "bless my eyes! 
Oh, Marster Thorpe, dat war de bes' sight of all. She war 
not two rods from dat ole fox's tail, and all her chilen hard 
after." 

The old lady was, as Jim said, showing her sons and daugh- 
ters the way in great shape. This point was lost to the writer 
at the time. It only goes to confirm what has already been 
said about fox hunting in the Southern States, one must know 
the whole family history, not only of the hounds, but the people 
who hunt them in order to appreciate the game. When you do, 
it becomes, as the reader must imagine it was in this case, inter- 
esting beyond comparison. Let us hark back to old Ginger. 

"Good old Ginger!" cried the Colonel. "There is not her 
equal in the State. She — " 

"Say in de worl', Marster Thorpe, say in de worl'," inter- 
rupted the enthusiastic Jim. "If you see de way she laid 
herself long de groun' after dat are fox, 'twould dun tickle 
you mos' to def." 

"Did you cheer her on, Jim?" 

"Did I cheer her on! Well, Marster Thorpe, how can you 
ask such a question? Cheer her on — I jus' dun shouted mj'^ 
head clean off — I holler and cheer until all de woods and de 
hills were hollering back. Yes, Sah, — I speck dey all hollering 
yit. An' when she jus' look at me, out o'^de corner of her eye, 
as she went pas', much as to say, 'dun you trouble 'bout me, 
Jim. I dun know my business !' " And Jim with his face side- 
ways to his master, gave him a quick look out of his big, lus- 
trous eyes, just to show how it was done. This pleased the 



A North Carolina Fox Hunt by Moonlight 53 

Colonel immensely, and he and Jim laughed and we all laughed 
together. 

The writer now recalled Madam's advice to the Colonel 
the night before about getting rid of Jim. The reader knows 
now what a waste of effort this was on Madam's part. The 
Colonel is a poor man as riches go these days, but we doubt if 
he would part with Jim for a miUion, or old Ginger for two. 
The Colonel is white, and Jim is black, but in fox hunting they 
are two of a kind. 

"What about Col. Sacket, all this time?" asked the Colo- 
nel, when the laugh had subsided. 

"Well, Sah, after ole Ginger go pas' and git out o' hearing, 
we ride along to de top o' de liill, and shu' 'nuff we heah in de 
bottom de Kunnel's dogs barking up a tree, jus' as I 'spected. 
De Kunnel he says 'damft' and we all goes down ter see, and 
shu' 'nuff, dar dey war wid de 'ported dog, his fore legs up de 
tree. 

" 'Dey is nothin' but possum dogs,' say I. 

" 'Yer right, Jim,' says de Kunnel. 

" 'I'll go up de tree, and shake him out,' says I. 'De dogs 
am spiled for fox, and yer better make possum dogs outen 'em, 
and done with it. Dat 'ported dog, he dun lead your other 
dogs into temptation.' 

" 'Yer right agin, Jim,' said the Kunnel, 'and if I had a 
gun, I would end his miserable life right heah.' 

" 'If 't would much obleege yer, Kunnel,' said I, 'I might 
'commodate you with the loan of a 'volver.' 

" 'Lem me see it,' said the Kunnel. 

"When I han' him my gun, he says, 'Is she loaded?' 

"'Yes,' I 'say. 

" 'What fur?' 

"I didn't like to tell him it was for his nigger Rastus, so I 
say, 'Jes in case yer like to shoot yer 'ported hound,' say I. 

" 'Well, I do,' say he and jes' den de big, 'ported hound 



54 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

come round de tree, barking like a cur, and de gun dun went 
off with a streak o' fire. De 'ported dog never knew what hit 
him. He were as dead as a do' nail, with a buUet through his 
head. 

"When de other dogs see dis dey put da tails 'tween dar 
legs, and hoofed it for home. 

" 'Give my compliments to Col. Thorpe,' say de Kunnel, 
'and tell him he has de best pack of hounds in North Carolina,' 
and we lef dat possum up de tree, and all start for 
home." 

"Well, well, well," said the Colonel, letting himself down 
into the seat of the big arm-chair, in a meditative mood. 
"Well, well, well! Has it come at last?" Then turning to the 
writer, almost with tears in liis eyes, he said, "For nearly one 
hundred years the Sacket family has been claiming the supe- 
riority of their hounds. It has caused no end of hard feeling, 
which on several occasions set up factions in this county, that 
were carried to the church and even to the state politics. Well! 
well! well! It has come at last," and again the Colonel gave 
himself to silent meditation. Jim, likewise, looked on most 
seriously. It seemed as if the great rejoicing had turned to 
mourning. But it hadn't. It was but a still deeper rejoicing 
on Colonel Thorpe's part. His sadness was sympathetic sad- 
ness for the final overthrow of the Sacket hounds, his ancient 
enemy. What if it had been the other way about? He felt 
the chagrin and mortification of this defeat for his neighbour, 
as if it had been his own brother. Still, if it had not happened, 
he and his neighbour would have gone on with the same family 
strife to the end of their days, transmitting to their descen- 
dants the same untiring efforts, each to out-do the other. If 
Colonel Sacket could have come in then, he would have received 
such a greeting as a Sacket never experienced in crossing the 
Thorpe homestead before. 

The next day as we were all in the back yard inspecting the 



A North Carolina Fox Hunt by Moonlight 55 

last litter of puppies from old Ginger — they were nearly six 
months old — up drove Colonel Saeket. 

"Well," said that game old sportsman, "Colonel, I con- 
gratulate you on having the best pack of hounds I ever saw. 
Old Ginger is indeed a wonder. My importation of EngHsh 
blood has proved a rank failure. I am thoroughly disgusted 
with the whole lot." 

Not an allusion to the evening before did Colonel Thorpe 
make, but leading his old neighbour to the kennels, they fell to 
discussing the last litter. 

"Which do you think the best of the lot?" asked Colonel 
Thorpe. 

"Well," said Colonel Saeket, after he had looked and han- 
dled them all over carefully, "I think I Hke the white and tan 
dog, but the httle bitch is a beauty, and marked just like her 
mother." 

"Jim, ho, Jim, fetch a basket from the kitchen " 

"Sir," said Colonel Thorpe, "may I have the pleasure of 
presenting you with the pair of puppies you like best from old 
Ginger?" 

Colonel Saeket blushed like a school-girl. He could hardly 
speak. When he did, he stretched out his hand, and said "Col- 
onel Thorpe, you — you're a gentleman and a sportsman. I 
take these dogs in the spirit they are given, and hope that in 
the years to come, I shall be able to produce a pack of hounds 
that will be a credit to the country, an honour to the state and 
the very de\dl to chase foxes." 

Then we went in and with a mint julep such as Jim only 
can make, we drank to the health of Col. Saeket, and his success 
in the breeding of American bred foxhounds, and once again 
to Col. Thorpe, a genuine Southern sportsman of the old 
school. 



A New England Country Gentleman I found him, 
A Sportsman as square as a box. 
With hospitality as broad as his acres were wide. 
With a soul unpampered by wealth or pride. 
And a heart as big as an occ. 

IV 
FOX HUNTING IN NEW ENGLAND 

UNCLE ABNER — ^A GENUINE SPORTSMAN OF THE REAL OLD SORT — 
TWO FAMOUS BIRD DOGS — A SAIL — SHOOTING THE FOX — 
APPLES AND CIDER. 

TTNCLE ABNER— everybody called him "Uncle:" it 
^^ fitted him — was one of those noble specimens of Amer- 
ican country gentlemen that were very plentiful all over New 
England and the Eastern States from the day of the early 
settlers until after the War of the Rebellion. 

Since then they have gradually disappeared and there does 
not seem to be very much material in sight to fill their places, at 
least on the farms. Nowadays most of these ancient country 
homes are given over to the emigrant, or to a wealthy city man 
who owns them as toys. The profligate land policy of our 
government in setting up tens of thousands of emigrants yearly 
in the farming business is principally the cause of this deteriora- 
tion in agriculture. Thus it has come about that the foreign 
government-made farmers have depeopled the farms of New 
England and the Eastern States of the grandest race of coun- 
try gentlemen America has ever produced. 

Agriculture in the Eastern States has steadily dechned. 



Fox Hunting in New England 57 

The sons and daughters of these country gentlemen have left 
the farm for the factory, so that this most noble race of men 
who were indigenous to the soil has been lost to the country, 
state and nation, swallowed up, ground to pieces or altered 
beyond recognition. 

It is to be hoped that ultimately the government at Wash- 
ington will give to agriculture the same fostering care and 
protection that are devoted to manufacturing industries. Who- 
ever attempts to write the history of America in the near 
future, will surely say that this profligate land policy has been 
one of the most unstatesman-like acts committed against the 
American people. 

There is now and then a descendant of this good old stock 
scattered about New England and the Eastern States, who 
is living in the country part, if not all, of the year. While this 
class may have inherited the taste for country life, they are 
usually depending upon a factory or business in town to sup- 
port the land. Nearly every one born of agricultural parents, 
whose memory goes backward to the fifties will know just the 
kind of a man the writer is about to describe in Uncle Abner. 
Or as our favourite poet Williams would say: 

"^ril give you a gentleman, a man, and a friend, 

A nailer to handle the horn, 

A man one is always prepared to defend. 

Whose friendship is strong and endures to the end, 

A truer sportsman never was born/^ 

Although the writer was so unfortunate as to have been 
born in a city, his bringing up in the fifties was in a community 
of Uncle Abner's. The writer's joy in finding such a man as 
late as '98 is left to the reader's imagination. 

Like fox hunting in the Southern States, the charm in New 
England centres more in the men who hunt than in the fox. 



58 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

"Come down and see me, come for a week," said Uncle Ab- 
ner. "We'll fill you up on pumpkin pie and buckwheat cakes. 
We'll give you plenty of New England air and that is the 
best in the world for your health. As you are built that way, 
we'll go fox hunting every day and coon hunting every night." 

"Now see here. Uncle, you are leading me into temptation 
beyond my strength. Pumpkin pie, that's my favourite, buck- 
wheat cakes are my special favourites and fox hunting — that's 
the last straw. 'I am yours to command.' When you are 
ready let me know, and I'll be there." 

"What's the matter with right now? Get your grip and 
come along with me," and Uncle Abner's stronger will again 
prevailed. 

Uncle Abner is a widower, and his maiden sister keeps 
house for him. "Just we two," explained Uncle Abner in his 
cutting New England humour, "and a man to do a few chores 
around the place and make me a lot of trouble and a hired 
girl in the kitchen, just to keep my sister from getting out of 
employment and to have something handy on the place for 
women folks to talk about when they call." 

It was nearly evening when we arrived at Uncle Abner's 
farm, and soon after we were seated to a good New England 
dinner such as Aunt Polly knows how to prepare — a kind of 
dinner that is being imitated and called "A New England 
dinner," all over the United States, but there is only one true 
receipt and that the writer is inclined to think never went out of 
New England. 

Uncle Abner had never enjoyed the advantages of a college 
education, but he, like many of his colleagues, possessed a fund 
of knowledge that is seldom met with in men who have been 
forced through college by the present day cramming process. 

Well, Uncle Abner was one of those pioneer great men who 
in lieu of book learning, had received from the fates some bea- 
con light that leads on to a grand and noble manhood, an 



Fox Hunting in New England 59 

honour to the neighbourhood and the marvel of all who know 
them. 

After dinner we had a social feast talking horses and poli- 
tics. Uncle Abner was at one time State Assemblyman and 
his reminiscences of political fights were most interesting. 
Said Uncle Abner finally, "If we are to go fox hunting to-mor- 
row, we'd better get out the guns so as to be all ready for an 
early start in the morning," 

While the old gentleman was getting down his guns and 
ammunition, the kitchen door opened and in rushed two of the 
grandest pointers one would wish to see. Uncle Abner hap- 
pened to have a gun in his hand at the time, in fact it was our 
talking gun or the smell of them that made these pointers push 
their way in. 

They ran to Uncle Abner, smelt of the gun and then began 
such a race about the house as would give a shooting man some- 
thing to remember as long as he hved. The writer has seen 
many bird dogs take on at the sight of a gun, but these two 
pointers, Liver and Bacon, take the prize. 

They furled or double reefed every rug on the hardwood 
floors, out through the hall into the parlour, back again into the 
sitting-room, humping their backs and going like mad. The 
writer laughed until he couldn't make a noise, while Uncle 
Abner looked proudly on. 

"The hounds for fox hunting," explained Uncle Abner, 
"we keep shut up down by the barn, as you know here in New 
England, we loosen the hounds and then station ourselves 
about as on runways for deer and shoot the fox as the hounds 
drive him past. 

"We will go out with the hounds early in the morning, and 
if we get anything by noon, we will come in and try the point- 
ers on woodcock and quails. They (the pointers) have seen us 
with the guns and they will be miserable if we do not take 
them out." 



60 The Hwnting Field With Horse and Hound 

Think of a man at Uncle Abner's age going fox hunting in 
the morning and then bird shooting in the afternoon, just be- 
cause Liver and Bacon had seen the guns and would be miser- 
able! 

The writer has spent many delightful evenings with genu- 
ine sportsmen, talking horse and gun and hounds, but the night 
among them all that his memory loves best to recall is the one 
spent with Uncle Abner, that American gentleman, farmer 
and fine sportsman. 

We were up bright and early the next morning. The 
hounds loaded into a crate on a democrat wagon, a basket heavy 
with luncheon at our feet, the guns leaning against the seat be- 
tween us — and we are ready. Liver and Bacon, meanwhile, 
were racing about and jumping at the old mare's head in their 
eagerness to see her start. 

Uncle Abner explained on the way that we would drive to 
Lebago lake, about two miles, leave the old mare and the 
pointers at a livery, take a sail boat and cross the lake to an up- 
land forest where there are plenty of foxes, and where there 
was little or no underbrush to obstruct the view, for as pre- 
viously stated, we were to station ourselves at certain points 
while the hounds were expected to "jump" their fox in the bot- 
tom lands near the lake and drive them within reach of our 
guns. The programme was to try the hounds for foxes during 
the forenoon, and return to give Liver and Bacon some fun 
after birds, in some big stubble fields, near the livery stable, 
after lunch; for by that time it would be too dry to "trail" 
foxes any more for the day. Hounds were put "in coupling 
irons" and then in leash and went dragging Nelson, Uncle 
Abner's man, to the wharf. 

Fastening the hounds in the boat house. Nelson pulled the 
writer and Uncle Abner out to where the "Daisy" lay nodding 
to her anchor buoy. He left us on board to make sail while he 
returned to the boat house for the hounds, which were quite 



Fox Hunting in New England 61 

load enough for the Daisy's small dingey. The Daisy was a 
"cat" rigged yacht, about sixteen feet water line and twenty 
feet over all and seven feet beam. Removing the sail cover 
and setting the mainsail was the work of five minutes, and by 
the time the hounds were alongside everything was ready for 
letting go our mooring. 

Uncle Abner had taken his seat in the stern, with tiller and 
main sheet in hand, Nelson had removed the couplings, and no 
sooner did the dingey touch alongside than the hounds began 
springing aboard. "Let go forward," said Uncle Abner, as by 
a quick turn of the rudder, he caused the Daisy's mainsail to 
fill. Nelson crawled aboard, making the dingey fast as he came. 

What a delightful sail! What a perfect autumn day! the 
sun had but lately risen ; the first gentle breeze of the morning 
was stirring and came to us loaded with savoury odors of a 
piny birchen flavour. 

With one short tack, we presently arrive under the lee of a 
projecting headland. The Daisy is brought up into the wind, 
down comes the mainsail, and as her headway is nearly gone, 
Nelson lets go the anchor. 

Hounds had been put in couples and the leash made fast to 
a cleat in the centreboard. Nelson puts Uncle Abner and his 
guest ashore and returns for the hounds. Meanwhile, Uncle 
Abner stations the writer some way up the hill and moves off 
to take up a similar position for himself some forty rods away. 
What a beautiful wood, free from underbrush, the great 
spreading tree tops in the flood tide of autumn, forming a 
glorious canopy of yellow and gold ! The leaves were still wet 
with the dews of the morning, so we came to our station without 
disturbing a single resident of the wood. "What an ideal day 
for gunning," the squirrels were chattering, like gossiping 
fish wives on a market day. The crows were collecting in a 
portion of the wood farther on. We tried the sights of our 
guns on a circling hawk. Several honey bees went past, all in 



62 The Hn/nting Field With Horse and Hound 

the same direction or the opposite. How Nelson is ever to man- 
age the hounds alone in that little dingey and get them ashore 
with their combined eagerness and impatience was what we 
were thinking of when his cheery whistle sounded down among 
the willows in the low land along the lake. 

This told us he was ready to liberate the hounds and an 
answering "Toot! toot!" from Uncle Abner's horn followed. 
Instantly all the wood folks stopped to Usten and a stillness 
settled over the forest that you could feel. Oh! those dreadful 
dehghtf ul moments, when every nerve in your body is listening, 
doubting, hoping as well as your ears for the challenging 
note of a hound. You know they are driving at their work with 
all their pent up energy and force. Still, what a contrast is 
the commotion in your mind to the stillness of this mighty 
forest. Think? — no, you cannot think. All your nerve and 
brain force is waiting to serve and think when the supreme 
moment comes. 

Was it a whimper or a jay? Yes, it was a whimper and 
a challenge. For this relief much thanks, your mind seems 
clearer now. Then you recall it was the voice of a young hound 
and remember a youngster is in the party and is probably 
chasing a chipmunk up a tree. It must have been a false alarm 
because nothing more comes of it. Presently the business of 
the day goes on again among all the families of the wood. 

What if a fox should come along now and you should miss 
him? This kind of fox hunting was entirely new to the writer. 
All that Uncle Abner had vouchsafed to say by way of putting 
him right was, "Now all you have got to do is to stand still in 
your tracks and don't let a fox shp past you." Isn't it about 
time a hound gave tongue? The writer began to relax his 
vigilance and think, when — but he is ashamed to confess it — 
a fox ran right past him. At first sight he was not ten yards 
away. Bang!! the leaves flew up from the ground at the end of 
Mr. Reynard's brush. Bang! a cleaner miss never was made. 



Fox Hunting in New England 63 

Just then came the deep bay of a hound and presently the 
wood was full of it, but what an awful thing had happened. 
The writer's chagrin was complete, he was nearly run over by 
a fox and missed him. On come the hounds charging right past 
him and when he finally came out of his trance, fox, hounds and 
all were out of his sight. 

Nelson came running up. Would the writer have courage 
to tell the truth when asked if he had seen the fox? But Nelson 
saved him the trouble, by saying, "Look sharp, he may be 
back here in a few moments," and on he went to the crown of 
the hill. This reminded the writer to load his gun again. He 
had learned his first lesson in the New England style of fox 
hunting; i. e. — when you are on a hunt you must be in the 
game with all your wits from the very first. A fox doesn't wait 
for hounds to chase him out of covert, certainly not, as the 
writer well knew, from the riding-to-hound standpoint. But 
there was the trouble, for in hunting a fox by riding to hounds 
your movements all depend on the hounds, in shooting your 
fox ahead of the hounds it is the fox you must think about re- 
gardless of the hounds. The hounds were gone an hour when 
we heard them coming back. By this time the cold perspira- 
tion stage that the writer had found himself in, had subsided; 
he had done a lot of thinking and had given some real close at- 
tention to hunting. He felt it would be a smart fox that would 
play that trick on him a second time. 

Bang! went Uncle Abner's gun. It never spoke but once 
and Mr. Fox never went the length of himself after. Hounds 
came up, we ate some lunch, while Nelson took off the pelt, 
mask and brush and rewarded the hounds for their toil. 

No allusion was made to the writer's worse than miss and 
he let it rest until the time came to talk it all over in the evening, 
by a cheery grate fire, a pan of apples and a pitcher of cider. 

Fortunately, perhaps, for the visitor's peace of mind, he 
redeemed himself somewhat in the afternoon, shooting over 



64 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

Liver and Bacon, but that is in pickle for another story. Suffice 
it to say that it was altogether as glorious a day's sport as the 
most exacting could wish — yachting, fox hunting and shoot- 
ing all in one day, and best of all the companionship of a New 
England country gentleman, and all round sportsman of the 
real old sort. 



To Harry Petrie, Denver, Colo. 

Of all the good fellows I ever have met 
The Westerner discounts them all. 
No better breed for all the year round. 
Ever rode a cayuse or cheered on a hound. 
Or rounded a steer in the fall. 



WITH HORSE AND HOUNDS ON THE WESTERN 

PLAINS 

JACK RABBITrr-COYOTE AND WOLF HUNTING — THE SPORTING 
PARSON WESTERN WAYS A THOROUGHBRED SPORTSMAN. 

/^VER all the great plains and cattle grazing countries 
^-^ of the United States, from the Mississippi to the Rockies, 
from Canada to the Gulf of Mexico, Jack rabbits are found 
nearly everywhere. 

Coyotes are plentiful, and the wolf, though greatly re- 
duced in numbers and range, still has, hke the Indian, reserva- 
tions where he continues to live, if not to flourish. In whatever 
neighbourhood, community or colony you find one of these 
three families, there you will also find some good, local hunting 
blood, with a few good dogs, well adapted to the locality, and 
any amount of genuine hospitality. 

You occasionally find an enthusiast who does nothing but 
hunt all winter and nothing but think and talk about it all sum- 
mer; but for the most part hunting on the plains is done as a 
recreation and is indulged in whenever the spirit moves, or a 



66 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

friend or a stranger comes along who expresses a desire to see 
the sport. 

The Jack rabbit needs no introduction, except to say he is 
not a rabbit at all but a hare. He resembles the rabbit in build, 
but is about twice as large. He does not burrow like a rabbit, 
but breeds above ground and when pursued, seldom, if ever, 
takes to ground even in a rabbit or badger country, where 
burrows are most numerous. The coyote is the outlaw and sca- 
venger of the plains; he lives on rabbits which he tracks by 
scent like a dog. He picks the bones of all unfortunate cattle 
whose hves come to an end while afield. 

He is about half way between a fox and a wolf and re- 
sembles one quite as much as the other. He has not the cun- 
ning of the former, the opinion of some of my coyote friends 
to the contrary notwithstanding. Like the wolf, he is a coward, 
but becomes bold and aggressive when in bands. They are 
generally found separate when hunting their smaller prey, 
such as rabbits and prairie dogs, but when hunger is upon them 
they organise, as in guerrilla warfare, and will pull down a calf 
or a yearhng, or even a bullock or cow, that is too sickly or 
weak to resist them. 

]VIr. Harry Petrie, who has a ranch near Denver, lost 
twenty-seven yearling heifers in one season, that were pulled 
down by coyotes. This turned Mr. Petrie's milk of human 
kindness to wormwood and gall. He bought some nonde- 
script dogs of foxhound extraction to begin with; these he 
gradually weeded out and in their places has one of the best 
packs of pure greyhounds for coyote hunting in Colorado. 
From hunting his foe for revenge he now hunts him for sport. 
Although he has taken from twenty-five to fifty head of coyo- 
tes a year for the last ten years he still remembers the death of 
his Herefords. He says, "It does me more good than a feed 
of oats to see a coyote pulled down." 

When pressed by hounds a coyote usually runs to others of 



With Horse and Hounds on the Western Plains 67 

his tribe with a view of banding together so that when the hand 
to hand contest comes on, the fight will be in their favour. If, 
in these chases, two or three coyotes find themselves pressed 
by a single hound they turn on him and his life is only rescued 
by bringing on the pack. 

Mr. Petrie has had several hounds killed by being led into 
such a trap and has many times saved the lives of others b}'' 
coming to the rescue or sending in a timely shot from his six 
shooter. The coyote alone, as before stated, is a coward, but 
when finally overtaken he puts up a fight that would tickle 
an Irishman to death. 

We need not dwell on his habits more, but leave it to the 
chase itself to bring out his most pronounced features. As 
to the wolf, he is well understood by everyone. What boy has 
not read all about wolves and how they band for attack ? Who 
has not seen pictures of them pursuing a horse and cutter on a 
stormy night, where the horse was being driven for dear life 
to escape ; or where their pursuit has been stopped by shooting 
one of the gang, which the others stopped to devour? 

An occasional magazine article and personal reminiscence 
of western men had been coming to the writer for some time as 
to Jack rabbit, coyote and wolf hunting with horse and hound, 
in some parts of the Western States, and he thought he would 
like to include a chapter or two on this form of the chase. To 
accomplish this he made a hunting tour through Colorado and 
Kansas, that he might see the game with his own eyes and be 
able to give his personal experiences and impressions. They 
may prove unsatisfactory to his western friends, whose ideas 
and views are somewhat at variance in different districts, and 
who may fail to understand how coyote hunting in one part of 
the State differs from that in another. The writer does not pre- 
tend to give the best way, but to tell what he saw, as he saw it. 
He had no idea, however, of the extent of this sport, which one 
in the East hears so httle about. The reason for this is that 



68 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

there are very few organised clubs with regular meets and that 
the hunting of this nature is done with private or trencher-fed 
packs (hounds from several different owners joined for a chase) 
which abound wherever game of this kind is found. 

The way in which it all came about was so characteristic 
of western sportsmen and western hospitality that we can- 
not do better perhaps than take the reader along from the 
beginning. 

On being introduced to Mr. Grubb, a noted ranchman of 
Colorado, the writer inquired after the game of Colorado, in 
general, and Jack rabbit, coyote and wolf hunting in particu- 
lar. "Look here," replied Mr. Grubb, "you just drop a line 
to Parson Uzel, of Denver; he is the man you ought to see, 
he is not only a great sportsman but one of the greatest 
ministers of the West. What denomination? Oh! No par- 
ticular denomination; he just preaches. Built a great church 
which is filled eveiy Sunday with miners, cowboys and the 
poorer classes of Denver. He is father, mother, brother and 
sister to the whole town, as well as to the great mining camps 
at Cripple Creek, Idaho Springs, etc. He plays fair and 
gives his people square deals every time and preaches practi- 
cal, every day religion. Every year about this time or just 
before Christmas he organises a Jack rabbit hunt and goes 
out where they are so numerous as to be a pest and clears 
up the country and returns to town with five to seven thousand 
Jack rabbits. This is his yearly Christmas to the labouring 
classes, and especially the poor. If you want any information 
write him." "What is his address?" inquired the writer. "Oh! 
I don't know, just direct to Parson Uzel; everybody knows 
him. As to coyotes, whatever you do, drop in on Harry 
Petrie, of the Union Stock Yards, when you go to Denver. 
He has the best pack of greyhounds for coyote hunting in 
Colorado. He is a thoroughbred and if you have never ridden 
to greyhounds on the plains, he will give you the time of your 



With Horse and Hounds on the Western Plains 69 

life. Introduction — you don't need any, but if you think you 
must have something, just tell him Grubb sent you.'* 

In due time came the following from Parson Uzel. "Re- 
plying to your esteemed favour, would say you can have any 
quantity of Jack rabbit or coyote hunting near Denver, and 
I will be pleased to have you join our annual shooting party 
after Jack rabbits which usually takes place this month, and 
if you decide to come on we will try and arrange to have it 
take place at a time that will suit your convenience." 

Who could resist such a letter as this? Well, it touched 
a weak spot somewhere in the writer's anatomy, and he went. 

Arriving at Denver, Parson Uzel, as every one calls him, 
proceeded to put me right. We started out together and in 
less than two hours I had been introduced to the best sport- 
ing element of the city, from the Judge of the Supreme Court, 
to a gunsmith, from bank presidents to ranch owners, from 
greyhound fanciers and coursing men to cowboys whom we 
happened to meet on the street. 

That evening there was a general round-up of the hunt- 
ing talent and the following programme was decided upon. 

The next day, I was to go Jack rabbit hunting with the 
B artel Brothers' noted pack of greyhounds; the day following, 
visit Cripple Creek mining camp and have a day with the 
Colorado Hunt Club after coyote; then, on my return to 
Denver, Mr. Harry Petrie was to take me to a ranch near 
Kit Carson for two days coyote hunting. In the meantime the 
parson would make arrangements for the annual Jack rabbit 
round-up at Lemar, the planning of which was at once set 
on foot. 

As to wolf hunting, the parson took me to a taxidermist 
who suggested two packs of hounds in Kansas. From there 
we went to the Santa Fe R. R. office, and after introducing 
me to the manager, the parson said, "My friend wants some 
wolf hunting and we hear of a pack doing good work at 



70 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

Buckley (Kansas) on your line. Would you mind having 
the wire touched to your station agent at Buckley for more 
positive information?" Then we went to another railroad 
to make arrangements for the annual Jack rabbit round-up. 
When we went in the manager, at the sight of the parson, 
held up both hands. Seeing tliis the parson, pointing his 
forefinger at the official, said, "We want three sleepers next 
Monday night and a dining car for Lemar." (Lemar being 
a small station with no hotel accommodations it was necessary 
to take bed and board in this way for about one hundred 
persons for the annual hunt, with a baggage-car to bring 
back the game). "It is yours to command," said the genial 
official. I mention this to give the reader a little fuller in- 
troduction to the parson and an insight into western hos- 
pitality. They go about it in a way that is both charming 
and delightful. Parson Uzel is the Henry Ward Beecher 
of Colorado. 

"Been here nineteen years," said the parson. "When I 
was ready to build this church (a very fine modern building 
seating over a thousand), I wrote a letter to some of my 
sporting friends, ranchmen and miners, and they all responded 
nobly. I went to the bank presidents of the city, and asked 
each for a thousand dollars, and I never asked twice. The 
contributions came in from ten cents to ten thousand dollars. 
Then," said the parson, opening a door that led into 
the beautiful audience room of the church, "tliis is the 
result." 

The writer never asked the denomination and he doubts 
if either the church or the parson has any creed, but he is 
inclined to think whatever name it goes by, it is an every day 
denomination of every day religion, conducted on practical 
lines, by a practical man who reaches the very class that most 
sectarian churches repel. 

Speaking of practical religion, when President Roosevelt 





^.i^a^ 




S! 






*i 


^ 





With Horse and Hounds on the Western Plains 71 

met the Rough Riders in a reunion in Colorado last year. 
Parson Uzel was asked to deliver the address. 

He dwelt on the real bravery of the men who carried for- 
ward the ammunition ; the men who carried the wounded from 
the field ; the night pickets, and all others who were exposed to 
fire, without taking part in the engagement. "This required 
real courage," contended the parson: "These are the real 
heroes of a battle, these are the men and boys to whom I take 
off my hat with more profound respect than to the General 
himself, who leads the charge." 

This so pleased our sportsman President that he went on 
the platform and said, "That's the kind of talk I like to hear, 
but not everyone is sportsman enough to admit it." 

No wonder Colonel Roosevelt, like King Edward VII, is 
so thoroughly loved and respected by the people. He is first 
and last and all the time a genuine sportsman. Play fair 
and fair play are his cardinal virtues. Snobbishness is foreign 
to his nature. Thus the executive mansion has been con- 
sistently graced by a democratic man, selected by a democratic 
people to preside over a democratic nation. 

Long live Colonel Roosevelt! Long live his example as 
a President, as a sportsman, and as a man! 



"So from their kennels rush the joyous pack; 
A thousand wanton gaieties express." 

SOIHERVILE. 

VI 
JACK RABBIT HUNTING WITH GREYHOUNDS 

*'lN THE beginning" MESSRS. BARTEL BROTHERS' FAMOUS 

PACK THE MOST BEAUTIFUL DOG SHOW ON EARTH — 

COYOTE HUNTING AT COLORADO SPRINGS. 

npHE good book says "in the beginning God created 
-*■ the Heavens and the Earth." When coursing men wish 
to tell you how long ago it was that the chase of the rabbit 
and hare began, they use the same form of speech. They 
say, "In the beginning, the lord made a Rabbit and when 
He looked upon him He said, 'Very good.' " It was dis- 
covered that this new creature had an unusual turn of speed; 
this suggested a similar animal to be especially adapted for 
running, hence the Hare. Although the rabbit was himself 
something of a sprinter the hare could run rings all about 
him, and soon ''streaked it" out of sight and bounds. To 
prevent a recurrence of this streaking business the greyhound 
was invented, with just enough speed to overtake and turn 
the hare back on his track, thus keeping him in view and from 
racing out of bounds. This the coursing men say was the 
origin of the rabbit, the hare, the greyhound and the chase. 
It also accounts for man himself, who according to the same 
authorities was built to enjoy the sport and to pass it along 
down the generations to the end of time. 



Jack Rabbit Hunting With Greyhounds 73 

In claiming all tliis and more as the true history of the 
beginning of the chase the writer merely wishes to voice the 
sentiments and traditions of coursing men and greyhound 
fanciers the world over. It is barely possible, however, that 
somewhere along down the line of traditional descent, some 
enthusiastic lovers of the chase may have "said more than 
their prayers," and that some allowances must be made for 
the inaccuracy that invariably creeps into all traditions and 
history. Nevertheless, there is an abundance of proof that 
the greyhound is one of the oldest, if not the oldest, family 
of the canine race. It is believed by many — Darwin not- 
withstanding — that the greyhound is the original stock from 
whence all other branches of the race descended. They are 
certainly not a modification of any other known species of 
family. It is a well authenticated fact, also, that coursing 
the hare was a favourite sport with our fathers, centuries 
before the good news came to earth that "a child was born." 
Yes, ages before this our fathers cheered on the chase as we 
are cheering it on to this day. It may be a weakness perhaps 
in coursing men to dwell as they do on the antiquity of their 
favourite sport, but it is, after all, a happy reflection, to know 
we are pursuing a game that our ancestors played at centuries 
before Rome was born; and still the grand old sport goes on 
and its followers of to-day are living over and over again the 
glorious days of their fathers, while preserving to the genera- 
tions yet unborn the customs and traditions of the chase. 

Xenophon (400 B. C), we are told, left a vivid descrip- 
tion of hunting the hare, and a younger Xenophon, evidently 
a 'chip off the old block,' has laid down the following rules, 
which show there were real sportsmen two thousand years 
ago. He says: 

"Whoever courses with greyhounds should neither slip 
them near the hare, nor more than a brace at a time, for 
though the hare is remarkably swift-footed and has often 



74 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

beaten many dogs, yet, being started from her form, she 
cannot but be fluttered at heart and terrified at the hallooing 
and the hounds pressing close upon her; and in this way 
many a noble hare has often ignobly perished without an 
effort, showing no diversion worth mentioning." This is quite 
true of rabbits and hares in general, but a Jack rabbit on the 
plains of Colorado needs no such law or start before hounds 
to give sportsmanlike sport. 

Goldin's translation of Ovid gives the following vivid de- 
scription of a chase. 

"I gat me to the knap 
Of this same hill, and there hehelde of this strange course the 

hap. 
In which,, the heste seems one while caught, and ere a man 

would thinke 
Doth quickly gin the grewnd the slip, and from his biting 

shrinke; 
And, like a wily fox, he runs not directly out. 
Nor makes a winlas over all the champion fields about. 
But, doubling and indenting, still avoids his enemies' lips. 
And turning short, as swift about as spinning -wheele, he wips 
To disappoint the snatch. The grewnd pursuing at an inch, 
Both cote him, never losing. Continually he snatches 
In vaine, but nothing in his mouth save only hair he catches. '^ 

This only goes to show it is the same good old game and 
is played to-day in the same good old way. 

There are within four or five miles of Denver in any di- 
rection plenty of Jack rabbits, and the B artel Brothers 
brought out their best hounds to show us how the sport is 
managed. 

From the kennels, the most rehable hounds go in couples; 
the younger element in shps led by boys, either on horse- 



Jack Rabbit Hunting With Greyhounds 75 

back or in wagons, or with a bicycle. Arriving on the open 
prairie, all the hounds are liberated. The reason they are 
so securely handled while in town is that they are liable to 
sight and take a£ter some one's pet dog or cat and kill it 
before any one can get near enough to stop them. These 
hounds are mostly used for coursing and have won many of 
the highest honours at the annual coursing meets in the 
state. However, they are occasionally taken twenty-five to 
fifty miles out of town for a special day after coyote. This 
is certainly the finest pack of greyhounds the writer has ever 
seen. The Bartel Brothers are very painstaking breeders, 
and have combined beauty, quaUty and utihty in their hound 
breeding and succeeded at it as well if not better, than any 
other hound breeder it has ever been the writer's good fortune 
to meet in America. 

There is an erroneous beHef common to hound breeders 
in America that a hound for the bench show is one tiling, 
while a hound for coursing is another. Just because it some- 
times happens that an inferior looking hound wins in field 
trials over bench winners, many men have come to the con- 
clusion that beauty and symmetry and quality are in some 
way antagonistic to utility. 

The Bartel Bros, have demonstrated the falsity of this 
argument and have proved over and over again that their 
best winners for bench prizes have repeatedly carried off the 
highest honours in a three days coursing trial. This demon- 
strates so forcibly what the writer has been most stoutly 
contending, that he cannot refrain from calhng attention to 
it in this case. 

As we ride along, Mr. Bartel gives us most glowing ac- 
counts of this and that hound, dwelling upon his or her 
principal points of excellence and not omitting, in equal fair- 
ness, to call attention to their faults. This is the fastest: 
that one, the best killer; the brindle bitch has the most en- 



76 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

durance. That big fawn and white hound is best at sighting. 
Dolly Varden always runs just back of Black Peter, who is 
great at turning the hare, Dolly keeping just far enough 
behind to receive the hare when turned. She makes one 
grab for Jack's loin, and throws him high in the air to alight 
among the others. This "running smart" on Dolly Varden's 
part excludes her from field coursing, because the hound 
that turns puss is given more credit that the one that kills. 
So one hound after another is discussed. Sometimes the talk 
runs to heredity. "That's the grandson of the greatest hound 
I ever owned and he is as near perfection as I ever expect 
to get in a single hound ; he has won a number of bench trials, 
but unfortunately he inherits, through his granddam, faulty 
sight. If he jumps a Jack himself, he will stay by him to the 
last, but if any other hound gets the start of him he loses 
interest in the game and stops as soon as he begins to tire." 
"This looks," we ventured to say, "more like jealousy than 
a question of sight." "Perhaps you are right," said Mr. 
B artel, "but whatever it is, good as he is individually, I will 
never breed from him nor sell him to anyone else to breed 
from." 

The writer mentions these things to show how thoroughly 
alive a man must be to the subject of breeding, as well as 
how intimately he must know the characteristics of each and 
every member of the pack, and back of all that, the personal 
knowledge of the faults and virtues for generations before 
he can hope to make a permanent success of hound breeding, 
or the breeding of any other animal. It is this very knowledge 
and these facts that have made the breeding of domestic 
animals so successful in England, where breeds come down 
from great-grandsire to great-grandson. It also illustrates 
why in America the breeding of all domestic animals is still 
in its infancy. We are a new people, few of us have even 
fathers before us who bred the same animals that we are 



/ 




Jack Rabbit Hunting With Greyhounds 77 

trying to produce. There is no royal road to success in 
breeding, all the rules and axioms will help a person but little 
if they do not know the animals they are breeding and their 
progenitors, as well as they know the members of their own 
family. Americans, as a rule, cannot bear to spend the time 
to acquire this training. They are taken with a fancy for 
this or that breed of dogs, or whatever it may be, and they 
buy the best that money can produce without considering 
further. Any one with money can buy a string of winners, 
but it takes an artist, it takes a breeder, to produce them. 
The writer has several times visited the great coursing events 
in England, where noted greyhounds from every part of 
Great Britain were assembled, but he never has seen in any 
one man's stud, so many high class hounds as are owned by 
Messrs. B artel Brothers, of Denver, Colorado. 

As we arrive out on the beautiful open plains, the hounds 
are given full liberty. What a beautiful sight! How they 
jump and play about the horses! Such agility, such grace, 
such poetry of motion. In this they distance all other four- 
footed animals. There is nothing like it. A grand pack of 
well bred foxhounds is a sight to cheer the heart of any man 
who loves a dog, or any other animal for that matter, but 
a ride over the boundless plains with a pack of greyhounds 
is the finest dog show on earth. 

We walk our horses slowly on over the great table land 
covered with short brown buffalo grass that affords less than 
half concealment for Mr. Jack even when he lies as flat as 
he can make himself between the tufts of grass. 

His brownish grey colour, however, makes it quite im- 
possible for man or hound to see him until he chooses to move 
and when he does move he goes straight away, at such a fear- 
ful gait that the saying "runs hke a streak," fits liim exactly. 
Up to the moment he is "jumped" in the very midst of the 
hounds, they have been running and jumping at each other in 



78 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

an aimless sort of way. Mr. Bartel is in the midst of an 
account of how Juno lost a cup, when up jumps Mr. Jack. 
The hounds take an instant to recognise their game. They 
spring to their chase, away go our mounts, who never wait to 
receive the word. If you are ready, or can get ready on the 
way, all right; but if you are not ready, no matter, go you 
must; for you must remember these western horses can begin 
running from a standstill and they know the game. 

First one hound then another leads. Dolly Varden is work- 
ing for her usual position behind Black Peter, who is only a rod 
ahead of her. On and on goes Mr. Jack. Hounds and horses 
skim the ground like a flock of birds. A big fawn and white 
hound now takes the lead. A few rods more and the game is 
done. No ! you make a mistake ; Mr. Jack makes a sudden turn, 
the hounds go on. One or two hounds make a pass at him, but 
he dodges right back through the hounds, who must take a wider 
circle. Finally we are all straightened out again and once more 
the race is on, but it is not for long. Once more Mr. Jack slips 
past their snapping teeth, but this time Dolly Varden is where 
she wants to be and as the hare doubles again, dodging the 
other hounds, Dolly turns in alongside and with a snap of her 
jaw catches Mr. Jack by the small of the back and throws liim 
feet uppermost high above her head only to light in the very 
jaws of the pack, that now have their sharp noses pointed for 
their game. It's all over ; Dolly Varden, having done the trick 
to her satisfaction, has gone on for a rod or so and stretched 
herself at full length on the grass, her nose to the breeze; her 
lolling tongue, her panting sides and rolling eyes, tell us what 
the effort has cost her in wind and strength. Man, horses, 
hounds are quite content to rest awhile. 'Twas a glorious 
charge, and as beautiful a run as one ever could wish to see. 

After half an hour we are moving on again over the plains, 
until three Jack rabbits have entered the preliminary stage to 
the making of a stew, then we return slowly homeward, tired 



Jack Rabbit Hunting With Greyhounds 79 

but as happy as we are tired. Hungry? Awfully hungry, 
and with appetites to shame a lumberman. 

"A run, sir, will please you far better than wine. 
The further you gallop, the better you'll dine." 

The Colorado Springs Hunt Club is quite an extensive 
organisation with a membership of about 200. Only a small 
portion of the number, however, take an active part in the 
chase. A more ideal country to ride and hunt coyote over 
cannot be imagined. 

The regular fixtures of the club are Wednesdays and Satur- 
days. 

These runs take place on the great plains in any direction 
from the city one may care to ride. A five or ten mile ride 
at most brings you to the game. Once a month the club send 
their horses and hounds out fifteen to twenty-five miles by 
rail, the evening before, to some ranch and go out on a special 
train in the morning for an all day's hunt, making a basket 
picnic of the affair. On these days they have from four to 
six runs, and half as many kills. They picnic on the plains 
wherever noon overtakes them, from a mess wagon, that fol- 
lows the hunt. In the evening they return to town bj^ the same 
special train, or in a special car, attached to some regular train. 
The writer just missed one of these monthly events by arriving 
at Colorado Springs the day it was going on. The genial 
master and owner of hounds, Mr. A. B. Nichols, and his hunts- 
man, ]Mr. J. S. Kenyon, kindly offered to take the writer out 
for a sample run near town and the invitation was gladly 
accepted. 

With a day's rest for the hounds after "the big hunt" — as 
the monthly meet is called, — a few of the more enthusiastic 
members were notified of the "by day" run and the next morn- 
ing, at 7 :30, we mounted our horses and were off to the plains. 



80 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

It was a very beautiful day and the ride over the plains was 
something never to be forgotten. 

The hounds were carried in a wagon especially built for the 
purpose, a pair of white coach horses to draw it, and a smartly 
dressed driver on the box to manage them. 

Arriving on the plains, the Master begins riding more slowly 
while the hound wagon and huntsman go on some forty to 
eighty rods in advance. This hound wagon is kept on the low 
land as much as possible wliile the huntsman rides to the eleva- 
tions, anywhere within half a mile of the hounds. 

There are holes in the top of the hound wagon through which 
hounds may put their heads and thus keep a constant eye on 
the movements of the huntsman. 

The driver operates the opening of the door in the back end 
of the wagon which instantly liberates the hounds, whenever 
the huntsman hfts his hat as a signal, which he does only after 
he has gotten as close up to the game as possible. 

The tactics he uses in getting up to the game consist in 
riding about him in a circular way as if riding past but all 
the time he is shortening the circle. The curiosity or stupidity 
of the coyote enables the huntsman thus to come witliin forty 
or eighty yards, when at the first symptoms of liis taking to 
run the huntsman lifts his hat and rides after the coyote. The 
hounds rush on to the huntsman, who is usually able to lead 
them to a view of the game, and the chase is on. Seeing the 
huntsman lift his hat is a signal, also, for the riders to race. A 
coyote usually runs in a circle at first, unless pressed too hard. 
The riders are generally able by riding to the right or left, 
as indicated by the direction the huntsman is taking, to come 
into the run behind the hounds. 

On this open plain and in the clear transparent air the 
chase is nearly always in full view from start to finish. Grey- 
hounds, as everyone familiar with the breed knows, can follow 
only as long as they can keep their game in ^dew. 



Jack Rabbit Hunting With Greyhomids 81 

This pack of hounds consists of six couples of pure grey- 
hounds, two Russian wolfhounds and two Scotch deer or stag 
hounds. 

The greyhounds are decidedly the best all-round hounds 
for Jack rabbits and for coyote; the Scotch deerhound is a 
good fighter, and his extra weight is of great assistance in 
pulling down the game. The Russian wolfhounds, however, 
are neither as fast nor do they have the endurance of the grey- 
hound or Scotch staghound and they seem also lacking in 
courage, seldom, if ever, maldng the first attack; at least this 
is Mr. Kenyon's experience. The writer has since heard from 
other sources that Russian wolfhounds alone are not partic- 
ularly satisfactory after coyote. 

"They are off," cries the Master, who is the first to notice 
the huntsman lifting liis hat, and our horses are at full gallop 
from the very first stride. They knew so well what was com- 
ing and were so impatient for the signal that the start was 
hardly less general than if a flag had fallen before them. The 
writer will never forget that gallop over the plains. The short 
brown buffalo grass made excellent footing for our horses, and 
the way they raced it after the circling greyhounds, who were 
but a rod or two behind their game, was something beautiful 
to see, and something delightful to remember. 

On went the chase, rising and falling to the undulating 
plain, a streak of coyote followed by six streaking greyhounds, 
that seemed to fly over the surface of the plain like a flock of 
feeding swallows. The riders had notliing to do but let their 
horses fly after them as fast as they could lay their feet to 
the sod, and keep their ej^es on the chase a quarter of a mile 
away, the distance increasing all the time in spite of our horses' 
best efforts. 

On goes the coyote, on go the hounds ! Now the question of 
endurance begins to tell; the two younger hounds begin to 
lag behind, and so on until two more of the six are beginning 



82 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

to fail, but two others are racing it neck and neck for their 
game, and are gaining, surely gaining. What a race, the coyote 
is taking for the public park; can he ever reach the wire fenc- 
ing that surrounds it? If he does and can go a few rods farther, 
he will run out of view among the shrubs and rocks and the 
game will be lost. 

The two leading hounds seem to take in the situation and put 
on their last ounce of steam in one mighty effort to reach their 
game. One of the two leading hounds is beginning to lag and 
there is an open space of a rod between him and the leader, 
who is now but a few feet from the coyote's brush. Then as if 
the coyote had run himself to a standstill, the grand old hound 
overtakes and catches him in a way to roll him over but his 
own momentum is so great he cannot stop. However, hound 
number two, wliich had, as Mr. Kenyon afterwards explained, 
purposely lagged behind, was on to the coyote before he could 
recover his feet. By this time the leading hound had returned 
to take a hand in the struggle. In a moment more the other 
hounds joined in the battle, but it was already over. With 
the coyote hanging from an attendant's saddle, we jog back 
to town, in ample time to change before lunch and see the taxi- 
dermist who was to mount the coyote's head for the wall, and 
pelt for a rug, for these trophies had been presented to the 
writer as a souvenir of his most dehghtful visit at Colorado 
Springs, the most beautiful city of all the great plains. 



"And ardent we pursue; our laboring steeds. 
We press, we urge; till once the summit gain'd. 
Painfully panting, there we breathe awhile; 
Then like a foaming torrent, pouring down 
Precipitant, we smoke along the vale." 

Somervile. 

VII 

COYOTE HUNTING ON THE PLAINS OF 
COLORADO 

THE GREAT PLAINS AT SUNRISE — RANCH LIFE — THE ANTELOPE 

CHASE THE OLD CATTLEMAN — A GOOD SHOT — THE RIDE OF 

THE TENDERFOOT^ROPING A COYOTE. 

A RMED with railway passes and an order from the Divi- 
-^*- sion Superintendent to stop the Union Pacific night ex- 
press at Kit Carson, we (Mr. Petrie, Mr. Steepleton, the 
writer, and six of Mr. Petrie's best coyote greyhounds) left 
Denver, full of hope and running over with expectation. "I 
shall not be satisfied," said Mr. Petrie, "if we come back with 
less than six coyote pelts. For the last thirteen years I have 
been promising an old friend and ranchman down there that 
I would bring my hounds down, and give the coyotes on his 
ranch a round trip up and a dance worth the money." 

"The thirteen years," said Mr. Steepleton, "is not a very 
good number to go on for luck, besides, to-morrow is the 13th of 
December, and Kit Carson is 113 miles from Denver. Also, 
we are starting on Friday. That's a pretty stiff combination 



84 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

to bank against, and I allow you all will have to beat the game 
a whole lot to win out." 

The writer has already made mention of Mr. Petrie and 
his hounds. He needs no further introduction than to say 
he is the general manager of the Union Stock Yards at Denver, 
and Mr. Steepleton, familiarly known as "Steeplechase Char- 
ley," is Mr. Petrie's ranch foreman. Steepleton had come on 
to Denver with a lot of fat cattle from Mr. Petrie's own herd. 
The year on the ranch had been most successful, and Mr. 
Petrie, wanting an excuse to keep liis foreman with liim for a 
few days, hit upon this coyote hunt as the means of killing 
two birds with one stone; i. e. — to give the writer, who was a 
tenderfoot at ranch life, and his old cattleman, a bit of sport 
that would galvanise the former, and give the latter something 
to tell the boys about when he returned to the ranch. Mr. 
Petrie didn't say all this, but putting two and two together, 
that's about the way it ciphered out. 

The foreman's dissertation on the unlucky 13 was passed 
by Mr. Petrie in silence. Mr. Petrie, however, looked much 
as if he was making a mental resolve to cram that super- 
stitious notion down the old cattleman's throat when the 
proper time came. 

Finally the hounds were carefully put aboard the baggage 
car, and we looked for a place in the smoker, as best suited 
to pass away the night from 9 p. m., to one o'clock the next 
morning, at which hour we were to land at Kit Carson. Mr. 
Petrie and his foreman talked cattle straight away, and cross 
ways, and sideways and backwards. Then they went over 
the ranch both cornerways and square, then more cattle, and 
ranch and cattle together. The writer went to sleep, and 
when he woke they were at it still. It was very evident that 
although Mr. Petrie was fond of his business at the stock 
yards, his heart was on the ranch where, as he said, he had 
spent the happiest days of liis life. His own ranch was in 




POOR MR. COYOTE 



THE AUTHOR WITH THE FIRST KILL 




IN COLORADO: THE MEET 



Coyote Hunting on tJie Plains of Colorado 85 

the "hill and bush" country. The one we were going to was 
on the plains. 

Our train was nearly two hours late on arrival at Kit Car- 
son. Our host had left a lantern to meet us. Mr. Petrie 
managed the six hounds, while Steepleton and the writer came 
on with the hand baggage. 

Arriving at the ranch, we went into a small detached build- 
ing about 10 X 14, in which we found a lighted lamp, one 
double bed and a single bed. ]Mr. Petrie, in the meantime, 
had found a stable for the hounds and we were soon turned in. 
It was freezing cold, but there were six blankets and a com- 
fortable over us, flannel sheets to sleep between, a straw tick 
that served as a mattress, and a network of ropes that did 
duty in lieu of springs. 

We were called up before the sun. It was hard work, but 
seeing a sunrise over the great plains was, to the writer, worth 
all the effort and discomfort of the trip. To come to such a 
place in the middle of the night, and wake up in the morning 
with a great undulating plain stretching miles away in every 
direction, not a single farm house or a rod of fence, a tree, or 
a shrub even in sight. 

The vastness of the plains, no pen has ever described it. 
Plain, plain, everywhere plain! The sunrise was like one at 
sea, a great yellow-brown sea of buffalo grass with undula- 
tions that rose and fell like the swells of the ocean, but nowhere 
a break to the evenness of the horizon. No one could have a 
more interesting or more fascinating introduction to the plains 
or to ranch life than at this particular spot, and in this peculiar 
way. It was to the writer one of the most interesting and 
impressive sights he ever beheld. No highways, not even a 
trail. If you wanted to go anywhere, you steered a trackless 
course across the plains to reach there by the straightest line. 
The ocean is vast, but it is ever changing, ever in motion. It 
seldom looks the same, two days in succession, but the plain is 



86 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

one immovable, unchangeable, sombre, brown sea, — still, silent, 
vast. It makes one feel so small, so insignificant, so isolated 
— like an infinitesimal speck on some new and uninhabited 
planet. It seems to subdue you, quiet you. You don't 
feel like talking. A man cuts a very small figure in the 
middle of a hundred acre lot. Think of setting him down in 
a hundred thousand acre field, or shall I say a hundred milHon 
acre field. No wonder the Westerner comes up with large 
ideas; nothing is too big or vast for him. Broadmindedness 
is one of his many virtues. 

Here and there, in whatever direction you cast your ej^es, 
you see detached herds of grazing cattle, sometimes a single 
animal with miles between it and others, then bunches number- 
ing from several dozen to as many hundred. The air there — 
as all over Colorado — is wonderfully clear and transparent, 
objects miles away seemed only half their real distance. One 
could see cattle at a distance that made them look like black 
spots the size of one's hat. What a beautiful morning it was, 
clear and crisp as a new dollar bill. As we stood admiring 
the view and in awe of its vastness and stillness, a lusty rooster 
calls out, and behold to the eastward, comes the dawn of day; 
the smaller stars go out, only the planets are left to burn. 
Again the herald of the morning calls and straightway the 
silver light of the east is tinged with the gold, which in turn 
gives way to a ruddy cast. Then with more assurance still, 
the barnyard trumpet sounds the final call. The cur- 
tain of the morning falls aside and in a blazing car of fire 
comes forth — the sun, the sun! "Glory and beauty of 
the day." 

It has been said there was nothing to break the general 
evenness of the horizon. Wrong! like the white sails of a ship 
at sea, whose hull is below the horizon, behold the majestic 
snow-capped summit of Pike's Peak over a hundred miles 
away. 



Coyote Hunting on the Plains of Colorado 87 

Now we notice two mounted cowboys, some two miles dis- 
tant, bringing in a drove of horses. From these were to be 
selected the ones the six cowboys were to ride on their regular 
work, and enough for our host and his visitors in the chase of 
the coyote. Each cowboy has five horses wliich he rides in 
turn. The whole lot are corralled every morning. The horses 
which are to be used next are caught or roped, and saddled 
ready for the day. The others are then Hberated to roam at 
will until the following morning. One day's work and five 
days' rest. Their one work day is very severe, they are under 
saddle from sunrise until nearly dark. The saddle weighs 
from forty to fifty pounds and the distance covered is very 
great. 

Now we look about at the ranch buildings. In addition to 
the Httle detached one-story box building, which we occupied 
for the night, there was a similar building occupied by the cow- 
boys of the ranch. A building about 10 x 14 with four bunks 
on each side wall, two upper and two lower, and two at the 
end of the room opposite the door and window. These were 
the sleeping quarters for the regular ranch hands that vary 
from six to eight, with an extra bunk or two for visiting cow- 
boys, who may chance to be in that neighbourhood looking for 
stray cattle. 

The owner's quarters were also built one story high of sod, 
which is cut from the spot into blocks about 4 x 8 x 12 inches. 
These blocks or sods of earth were laid up like so many stones 
or bricks, in a thin mud (mortar) of the same material. The 
walls themselves are about 8 inches thick, studded, lathed and 
plastered on the inside. This main building contained three 
rooms, a Idtchen or mess-room, and two bedrooms, one for the 
proprietor, the other for the ranch foreman and his wife, who 
in this case cooked for all. 

Another detached 10 x 14 earth building was devoted to 
provision, general stores and ranch supphes. The stables, also 



88 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

of earth, were low and formed one side of a corral made of old 
railroad ties set on end and close together. This was for horses. 
The cattle corral, or branding pen, joins the horse corral and 
is also circular in form, with a recess for heating branding 
irons. It is witliin the former enclosure that the young horses 
are driven, roped and saddled; and in the latter, the year's 
crop of calves are roped, thrown, and branded. So far as 
buildings go, the above describes the requirements of a 10,000 
acre cattle ranch, that carries from three to four thousand 
head of cattle and about a hundred head of horses, all ages 
included. 

The buildings were duly inspected while the cowboys had 
their breakfast, after which our host says, "Come," and without 
more ado we file into the dining room and take a seat any- 
where on the bench where a plate is waiting. The knives 
and forks are of iron, the spoons of tin. The provisions well 
cooked and abundant — ham and eggs, boiled potatoes, cream, 
gravy, corn bread, buckwheat cakes and coffee. No apologies, 
no ceremony, what you cannot reach, ask for; if you don't 
get all you want, it's your own fault. 

While breakfast with our host is being served, the cowboys 
ride away for the day's work, which at tliis time consisted of 
cutting out the best conditioned cattle and rounding them up 
to the ranch, preparatory to driving them to the railroad station 
and earring them for market. It would be interesting to fol- 
low this work for a week and end up by riding twenty- 
seven miles Saturday evening after supper, to a dance 
where there were seven women and twenty men; but this is 
what we have in anticipation for our next visit to the plains. 
For the present we must confine ourselves to the chase. 

Breakfast over, we go to the shed, to find our horses saddled 
and bridled, and a team hitched to a wagon that is to carry the 
hounds. Mr. Petrie, Steepleton, our host and the writer are 
to go mounted. 




READY TO START 




CROESUS 



AFTER THE KILL 



Coyote Hunting on the Plains of Colorado 89 

It was the writer's first experience in a ranchman's saddle, 
and he felt as if he were sitting in the crotch of a tree. The 
pommel of the saddle came as high as the lower pockets in his 
waistcoat in front, and the cantel as high as his waistband 
behind; the most awkward part was that the stirrup leathers 
were so far back he was obhged to ride with a nearly straight 
leg and long stirrup leathers. It was a pleasure to see Mr. 
Petrie and his old foreman swing themselves into their saddles ; 
adjusting their stirrup to the left foot, they catch hold of the 
pommel of the saddle, and drop into their seats with apparently 
no effort at all. As they do so, they raise the reins, in the 
left hand, high above the pommel, and with a slight pressure 
of the reins to the right or left against the horse's neck, with 
a sway of the body in the same direction, they are off. In 
fact the whole thing is accomplished like one motion, and before 
they have fairly reached their seat, their horses are making the 
turn, and under way. 

They use a gag bit with single reins, a very harsh bit which 
they leave severely alone, the horse being guided by pressure 
of the reins against the neck, and a swaying of the body, and 
stopped mostly by word. These reins are long, but are on no 
account fastened together. When the cowboy wishes to dis- 
mount, he allows both of these reins to fall on the ground. The 
horse will feed about, but not attempt to go away until the reins 
are taken up. While they drag on the ground, the horse is as 
good as hitched. 

The hounds were loaded into an improvised crate of wire 
netting, with the back end of the crate on hinges, and held in 
place by a rope that went forward to the driver's seat. Should 
hounds be needed, all the driver had to do was to slacken the 
rope, when the hounds would rush out and away in pursuit of 
their game. As already mentioned, greyhounds can only 
follow the chase as long as the animal they are pursuing can 
be kept in sight. Therefore, on the undulating plain, it was 



90 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

most important to start them on the best possible terms with 
their game. Thus equipped and ready, we all moved slowly 
on over the great plain. 

Presently, in a depression of ground that had once been 
a buffalo wallow, Mr. Coyote was sighted. The wagon was 
headed that way at the time, and Mr. Petrie directed it to the 
right as if moving on past the coyote, and then to continue 
on in a circular course, always drawing in a little nearer, as 
already described in a former chapter. The riders, meanwhile, 
rode side by side on the opposite side of the wagon. Presently, 
this scavenger of the plains ran slowly on to a rise of ground 
that gave liim a more commanding view. On went the wagon, 
ever headed as if passing, but all the time drawing in towards 
the pivot of attraction. The plan was, the instant the coyote 
started to run, as he was ultimately sure to do, to liberate the 
hounds, while the riders rushed on with whip and spur to gain 
the elevation. Thus far the hounds would, of course, be led 
on by the riders, but the instant they reached the highest point 
of ground, they were expected to sight the game and go on 
with the chase, the riders following on as fast as their horses 
could be made to go, for no horse could be expected to keep 
pace with the hounds. 

Nearer and nearer we approach our game, which stands 
all absorbed in curiosity at the moving wagon and riders, that 
from his point of view seem always moving past him. Finally, 
when we are witliin one hundred yards of him, he turns and 
runs. "Hounds!" shouts Mr. Petrie. The cage door drops — 
out rush the hounds. Meanwhile the riders have sent their 
horses after the coyote with all possible speed. The hounds 
soon overtake and pass us just as we reach the highest point of 
ground. But what a sight! Away went the coyote towards a 
herd of some fifteen or twenty antelopes, which in turn began 
to run. The antelopes being the principal moving object to 
attract the eye of the hounds, they took after them, and I 



Coyote Hunting on the Plains of Colorado 91 

venture to say such a beautiful race for at least four miles has 
seldom been witnessed. 

Mr. Petrie called to his hounds in vain. On they went, 
faster and faster, until in the first mile they came within four 
or five rods of the last antelope in the herd. Then some of 
them began to lag, but "Mack," Mr. Petrie's greatest hound 
for speed and endurance, carried on the chase with ever a wider 
opening between himself and his companions, until finally at 
the end of about a three mile run, the antelope began to draw 
away from the resolute Mack, and in another mile or less he, 
also, had to own defeat. We all rejoiced in the wonderful sight 
except Mr. Petrie, who looked decidedly downcast. He was 
thinking that after such an exhausting race the prospect of 
catching a coyote that day was decidedly slim; thus his heart 
was troubled and his countenance glum. The only compen- 
sation, poor as it was, was the unstinted praise his old foreman 
and the writer gave to the greatest race either had ever beheld, 
or is ever likely to again. 

We had raced away at the top of our horses' speed, and 
the greyhounds had passed us as if we were standing still. 
Mr. Petrie was leading and when he took in the situation, he 
drew rein, and we followed his example. 

The old cattleman signalised his pleasure and approbation 
of the wonderful sight in four words that summed up the 
whole situation with directness and clearness, if not with 
elegance. It told of his surprise, his wonderment, his pleasure. 
At the same time it was his way, at least, of complimenting 
Mr. Petrie and the hounds. His body swung in the saddle, 
his horse came up alongside that of his despondent employer, 
and this is what he said. "Well, I'll be damned!" Mr. Petrie 
smiled his thanks, and we rode on to collect the hounds. 

The poor hounds came straggling back to the wagon, done 
to a turn. It was hard to say which had suffered most, for each 
one of them had simply run himself or herself to a stand- 



92 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

still. When at last they reached the wagon, they threw them- 
selves at full length on the short buffalo grass, as if they had 
lain down to die. Mr. Petrie now goes to the wagon, takes 
out a jug of water, and placing his hat on the ground, dents 
in the crown, and into the indenture pours the refreshing gurg- 
ling draught. One hound after another staggers up at the 
sound, to quench his thirst. Last, of course, comes the indom- 
itable Mack, who had led the chase and carried on the war 
single-handed when all the others had quit. 

We now dismounted and took our lunch, although it was 
little beyond 11 o'clock. It was a good idea, for it not only 
refreshed the hounds, but gave Mr. Petrie a httle hope that we 
might still snatch victory from defeat. "I had set my heart on 
six coyote pelts which would make you a robe to take back 
East. I shall be thankful after this misfortune if we secure 
one. It all comes from my not knowing the country. This 
will never happen again." 

Defeat is one of the characteristic features of the chase ; if 
everything worked out as one expected, there would be little 
interest in the game. 

Lunch over, hounds are put up, the crate is blanketed to 
exclude all draughts, and we are off again. 

An hour later we sighted another coyote, and the same 
tactics were resorted to as before. Away we went ; the hounds 
ran better than could be expected. The coyote, however, ran 
to a pal of his in a small ravine, and the hounds spht and finally 
ran their game out of view and returned to the wagon. 

About two hours later we sighted again. This time hounds 
had fair sailing, and such a ride to hounds I have 'seldom 
experienced. Mr. Petrie on a magnificent grey, nearly, if not 
clean, thoroughbred, set the pace for riders and hounds for 
a distance of nearly three miles. Greyhounds usually come to 
their coyote in a mile or less. As they had already shot their 
bolt for speed their endurance alone could, in a measure, make 



Coyote Hunting on the Plains of Colorado 93 

up for the loss; and it did, for presently Mack caught the 
coyote by the hind leg and threw him on his back. His own 
speed, however, was so great that he went on past liis game. 
The other hounds were too far behind to complete the job as 
usual. Mack turned, and before the coyote had recovered his 
feet and gone a rod, he downed him again. By this time, the 
pack, cheered on by Mr. Petrie, arrived and took a hand in the 
game. The unusually long run had told on them so that they 
would no more than down their game, then panting for breath, 
would loosen their hold, when the coyote would get up and go 
on again. Mr. Petrie cheered on his hounds, the cattleman 
expressed himself in his usual lucid fashion, first at the coyote, 
then at the hounds. So the battle went on for a distance of at 
least forty rods, when little "Black Lady," already sore and 
bleeding from several wounds the coyote had inflicted, took 
him by the throat, and never let go her hold until after the 
other hounds retired, being satisfied their game was dead. 

"I do believe," said the foreman, "that little black hound 
would tackle a mountain lion. She is a dead game sport to 
the end of her tail. She took no chances on that coyote coming 
to life again like he had been doing every time the}'- thought he 
had passed in liis checks. She's a lone hand, isn't she?" con- 
tinued the old cattleman in great delight. 

The writer regrets to have to chronicle this rather bungling 
kill, but he hopes his readers will not take this as the rule. 
Generally the struggle is over in a moment or two when the 
leading hound is well supported. Where the coyote lands the 
first time, he goes on his back; there as a rule the battle ends. 
The wonder is that after the unfortunate circumstance of 
the morning, the hounds were able to run for a rod, to say 
nothing of a kill. 

On the way to join the wagon, Mr. Petrie sighted another 
coyote. He could not resist leading his hounds on again, but 
they were too tired and foot sore to go on with the chase. Find- 



94 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

ing himself alone with the coyote, Mr. Petrie put spurs to his 
horse, cut across the circle the coyote was making, and while 
running at full speed he dropj)ed him with a second shot from 
his revolver. 

"That gun play of yours," said the old cattleman, as Mr. 
Petrie proceeded to tie the dead coyote to the back of his saddle, 
"that gun play of yours has lost but little by coming to town; 
we all take off our hats." And so we did, and swung them too 
with a cheer. Was ever a compliment more neatly put? As 
usual it left nothing more to say. 

So far as the events of the second day went, there was little 
to redeem the day before. Three coyotes were started, with but 
one score, but the way this was done puts to shade all former 
kills, and I doubt if a similar experience has ever been 
recorded. 

There was one fruitless run in the morning, and none after 
lunch until we were nearly home, when we came upon five or 
six coyotes in the neighbourhood of a carcass that was evidently 
of recent death, probably a sickly animal that the coyotes had 
pulled down. Mr. Petrie was riding with the proprietor on 
the wagon leading his horse. His cattleman had gone off by 
himself to inspect a herd of steers. Taking in the situation at 
a glance Mr. Petrie says to the writer "as your horse seems to 
have had about enough, take mine and when we get as near 
to the coyotes as possible, lead on the chase." Mr. Petrie is 
a good six feet and his stirrup leathers too long for the writer 
by as many inches. Instead of buckles by which to shorten 
them, these stirrup leathers were laced with leather strings. 
The writer managed to get one unlaced and shortened while 
riding slowly on towards the coyotes, but before he had time 
to shorten the other Mr. Petrie shouted ''Hounds^ There was 
no waiting for adjustment of stirrup leathers. Out piled the 
hounds, and away we went. Hounds came on to equal terms 
with the rider, but they gave up the game in the first three- 




MR B. J. CAMERON WITH A ROPED COYOTE 




MR. PETRI ES hounds: THE KILL 



Coyote Hunting on the Plains of Colorado 95 

quarters of a mile. It was a pity, for the coyote, carrying such 
a picnic dinner, could not have held out for any great distance. 
But such a ride the writer has rarely experienced. On went his 
mount long after the hounds had stopped running, the loose 
dangling stirrup spurring liim on. He pulled at his horse, but to 
no account; side by side he ran with that coyote, as if trying 
to turn a runaway steer. The writer knew the race must come 
to a stop sometime, and that all outdoors was before them. 
Down a gradual descent for a mile, horse and coyote had it neck 
and neck. This brought them to a dry ditch or creek, which 
the writer wished at all events to avoid. He pulled with all his 
might on his right hand rein, as they were going at it obliquely, 
but not an inch would the horse give to his pull. Nearer and 
nearer came the ditch ; both hands were now pulling at the one 
rein; you might as well have tried to change the course of a 
shooting star. Down into the ditch, a perpendicular drop of 
about three feet, went horse and coyote — up, and out the 
opposite side, which was less abrupt. There was nothing to do 
but to ride it out. The writer began to feel liis weakness, his 
eyes were nearly blinded by filling with water at the cutting 
wind. Another half mile, and still the horse could not head the 
coyote nor the coyote get away. Again he pulled and tugged 
with all his might against the bit, to no purpose whatever, and 
it began to dawn on the rider that he was being run away with. 
It was evident that the horse had never undertaken to head a 
steer without succeeding and to turn back in defeat was not in 
the lexicon of his experience. Presently it occurred to the 
writer to try to rein the horse by the neck. This brought him 
about like the pressure of a tiller to a sail-boat, and the race 
of the tenderfoot was over. 

Just as this pair returned to the wagon, another coyote was 
sighted, but a few rods to the left. This was the cattleman's 
turn (he having returned meantime) , and away he went. The 
hounds deserted him in the first hundred rods, but his coyote 



96 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

also was too full to run properly, and we saw the cattleman 
graduall)^ gaining. 

"He is going to rope the coyote," cried JNIr. Petrie, and sure 
enough around and around the cattleman's head circled the 
open noose. No, he has missed. The rope gathered in hand 
over hand, while the horse raced on at the top of liis speed, 
was soon cutting the air once more in circling the cattleman's 
head. Suddenly it leaves his hand. "Done!" cries Mr. Petrie. 
No sooner does the open noose reach its mark than the cattle- 
man's body is thrown back in the saddle, his horse braces his 
feet for a sudden halt. Mr. Coyote comes to the end of his 
halter, and turns a somersault. Meantime the horseman has 
turned his mount as if on a pivot, and from the first stride is 
cantering him back towards the wagon, the lassoed coyote at 
one end of his lariat, the other fast to the pommel of liis 
saddle. 

It was, to the writer's mind, the most marvellous feat he had 
ever seen in the saddle, and he undertook to say so, but the old 
cattleman would have none of it. He interrupted with, "That's 
nothing, the little devil was so full of cow he couldn't run worth 
a damn." 



^'Of our sport and our welcome none ever complain, 
If you co7ne to us once, we shall see you again." 

Rhymes in Red. 

VIII 

THE GENESEE VALLEY 

THE VALLEY ITSELF — NATURE OF THE LAND HUNTED OVER — THE 

NATIVES — WHY THEY LOVE THE VALLEY A VISIT TO THE 

KENNELS. 

T T seems difficult to write of the Genesee Valley homids with- 
■*- out first introducing the reader to the famous valley itself> 
and the nature of the country hunted. 

While the natives will tell you "the hunt is one of the oldest 
in America," and "the hunters are the best in the world," the 
valley comes first in their affections. You will have to hear all 
about it sooner or later, so we may as well devote a few lines 
to attempt to show you what it is like. Just a glance, so that 
should you visit there, or meet one of the natives, you will have 
the good taste to talk valley to them, or rather let them talk 
valley to you. It is their weakness, perhaps, but it is policy 
to indulge it. Perhaps you have been there and know it by 
heart, and can, like the natives, sing its praises with variations. 
In that case, you had better skip what follows, for you are 
sure to be disappointed in the writer's attempt. 

Everyone agrees in saying the Genesee Valley is the most 
beautiful, most fertile spot in the State of New York, and those 
who have travelled most in America and abroad, say there |s 
but one Genesee Valley in the world. 



98 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

If you would see the valley at its finest, "Come up," as 
Joshua Whitcomb says, "in the spring-time, when nature is 
doing its best, and let the scarlet-runners chase you back to 
childhood." If you would see it in its prime, postpone your 
visit until mid-summer, when the yellow harvest fields checker 
the landscape in squares of gold, filling the barns with plenty 
and the granaries to overflowing. But if you would see the vale 
in all its beauty and loveliness, come up when the first hazy 
.atmosphere of October has subdued the fiercer rays of a sum- 
mer sun. When the glorious colours of autumn have touched 
each leaf, when the squirrels are at harvest, and the woodcock 
and partridge are fit — then is the time to come to the valley, 
for then it is that apples and cider are plenty and the rich 
golden pumpkins make heavenly pie. Is that not enough to 
start you? Then listen to the huntsman's horn, and the melo- 
dious chorus of the pack, how it echoes from wood to wood, 
from hill to hill, proclaiming the glorious news that a chicken- 
thief fox is afoot, and retribution hard after. That is the time 
to come to the valley ; unless you have eyes without seeing, ears 
without hearing, and a heart that is in the wrong place alto- 
gether — so that your blood runs backwards — "You're a goner." 
All your sorrows, disappointments, wrongs, vexations, sickness, 
cares, all, all, are gone. Can the gods offer more? No, but 
the Genesee Vallians can. They can 

"Give you a mount and a field you can count. 
And a fox that is willing to go. 
Hounds you cannot surpass, a full cry on the grass. 
What more would you wish for below?" 

The noble Genesee river enters the valley from a gorge 
wherein it has been confined for the last fourteen miles; viz., 
from the falls at Portage, whence it winds its tortuous way 
between walls of solid masonry three to four hundred feet high. 



The Genesee Valley 99 

and in a succession of rapids, until it discharges into the valley 
at Squawkie Hill, the writer's home, and then goes on in a 
more peaceful way to Lake Ontario. The Genesee river gorge 
is one of the most romantic, most interesting, most beautiful 
canoe trips in,— well, in the world, let him who can, dispute it. 
At times many of the rapids are quite formidable enough to 
open your eyes and close your mouth, and to make your scalp 
lock etand on end; but you would not have missed it for a 
thousand. 

The Genesee Valley was once upon a time a great lake, 
some forty miles long, and two to three miles wide. 

The northern barrier of this lake, near Rochester, New 
York, finally gave way, and the lake became a valley, with the 
river cutting through the centuries of deposit, and accumulated 
wash of the great Alleghany watershed. This deposit is over 
a hundred feet deep, and accounts for the remarkable fertihty 
of the soil. The valley was, according to Indian tradition, 
never wooded. This theory is confirmed by the earliest history 
of the country, and is one of the strongest proofs of the lake 
theory. 

The hills on either side of the valley grow higher and higher 
as you go from north to south, until they are over one thousand 
feet high. These hills are cut and seamed by ditches, gullies and 
ravines without number. They make most formidable barriers 
in following the chase, and in addition to the usually well tim- 
ber-fenced pastures, require of the hunter that he should be the 
stoutest, the most courageous, and altogether the best all- 
round animal that is to be found in the equine race. Besides 
being a good timber jumper, he must be schooled to all sorts 
and conditions of ditches; to clamber down into ravines as 
sure-footed as a goat, and out again as if crawHng up the side 
of a mansard roof. 

These gullies and ravines afford Reynard most secluded 
retreats. They are a veritable haven of refuge. It is quite 



100 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

impossible to have a run of any reasonable distance that does 
not include the crossing of from one to half a dozen of these 
gullies. To attempt to ride around them, either above or below, 
usually means to ride yourself out of the chase altogether. 
Often when you have reached the opposite side of one of these 
ravines or gullies you find Reynard has turned back into it 
again. Many of these ravines have a beginning near the crest 
of the hills, and grow gradually deeper and wider, until a 
ditch becomes a gully ; a gully a ravine, a ravine a gorge, with a 
distance of two or three miles from source to valley. In mid- 
summer most of these ditches are dry, while in the breaking 
of spring and during the autumn rains, they are roaring tor- 
rents, cascades and waterfalls. They go from extreme to ex- 
treme in a presto change order. In some places, the "Seven 
Gullies" for instance, you no sooner negotiate the opposite bank 
of one, than another a little deeper and steeper confronts you. 
These gullies are from fifty to a hundred and fifty feet deep, 
and have a pitch of 45 degrees or less. They are mostly wooded, 
and dense with underbrush. 

The usual method of negotiating these gullies is to dis- 
mount and lead your horse down to the bottom, then catch 
hold of his tail and scramble up the best you can. Some horses 
have to be led, and more than one has taken a header. Cross- 
ing these gulHes is usually a sort of "follow the leader" game, 
there being but one or two, possibly three, trails by which it 
is possible to go in and out of them. 

The great flat lands of the valley are mostly owned by the 
Wadsworths, and are principally devoted to pasture, so that 
when a fox — which is not very often — leads the way across 
these beautiful fields of fifty to three hundred acres in extent, 
you may have such a gallop as is only enjoyed over the great 
"grass lands" of England. 

In a word the Genesee Valley, for the most part, is a timber 
country, rail or worm-fence, mostly stake and rider, ditches. 



The Genesee Valley 101 

gullies, and wooded ravines — a hard country to ride, but 
it is the making of all-round hunters and all-round riders, 
as well. 

It is a regular hunting day for the Genesee hounds. We 
will start early so as to call on the Master, Major Austin 
Wadsworth, and pay a visit to the kennels, before it is time to 
go to the "meet." We will, therefore, send our hunters slowly 
on by the stable boy. 

"Wait a moment," Madam is calling. "Going away with- 
out sandwiches," she adds; "just like a man! Such thought- 
less creatures! You need as much looking after as a lot of 
girls." 

She has provided for us, in anticipation of a long day, a 
stack of sandwiches, something, as Jorrock says, "For the wear 
and tear of our teeth." Madam says, "It is to prevent our 
breeding a famine in her pantry when we return." When thus 
relieved of her sandwiches and a piece of her mind as to the 
inferiority of man and the necessity of a woman to look after 
him, we are off. Of course we must leave Madam with the last 
word, it is a duty incumbent upon all good sportsmen. Besides 
it is best to take her sandwiches and indulge her in the belief 
that she is in the programme for the day, and to have a cut and 
dried compliment ready for her thoughtf ulness and the quality 
of her cookery on our return; it is wisdom. A compliment is 
an excellent thing to have standing to a man's credit; it 
is "a very present help in time of trouble," and man is 
born to trouble. "Ware" trouble. Author, and get on to the 
kennels. 

Now we are off, but in passing through Cuylerville, on our 
way to Geneseo, the inhabitants of that peaceful little hamlet 
would think we were thoughtless, if we neglected to mention 
that it was here that the Seneca Indians had built the great 
"Chen-na-see castle," a very large settlement of Indians, which 
was, we believe, the capital of "The Six Nations," and from 



102 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

which the river and the valley have taken their names. It was 
to destroy this famous, or rather infamous settlement, that 
General Washington sent liither the Sullivan expedition. 

On the way we shall point out to you the "Bigtree Farm," 
the property of Mr. Craig and liis brother, J. S. Wadsworth, 
so-called from its having at one time the famous "Bigtree" 
(since blown down) celebrated in history, story and song, as 
the official rendezvous, or State Capitol of the Six Nations. 
From the council fire, here, the young bucks were sent, as 
runners, with messages to the chiefs of the different tribes, 
as far east as the Hudson, west into Ohio and south into 
Pennsylvania. It was underneath the Bigtree, a section of 
wliich has been preserved on the Hon. James Wadsworth's 
lawn, that the famous speeches of "Red Jacket," "Corn 
Planter" and "Logan" were made. 

It was here the Six Nations buried the hatchet and smoked 
the pipe of peace with the representatives of Washington. 
"What," you may ask, "has tliis to do with hounds and 
hunting in the Genesee Valley?" Notliing, save a bit of sen- 
timent, which the natives are fond of keeping alive. We simply 
wish to add this sentimental colouring to the trees of the valley, 
and to remind you as you ride along the banks of the noble 
waters of the "Chen-na-see," of the red man, who once loved 
it as well. 

It was here the returning warrior came to court his "dusky 
mate." It was the same old story that many a paleface has 
found the heart and courage to repeat, as he paddled along 
these shady banks in the hght of a harvest moon. 

We are nearing the village of Geneseo and a fond recol- 
lection comes over us, as we recall the tempting menus of the 
"Big Tree Inn"— "A Hotel for Sportsmen Designed." 

It is during the last mile before we reach the village, that 
we shall be able to show you one of the most beautiful views 
to be had of the valley. From here you will see the great 




MAJOR W. A. WADSWORTH, M. F. H. 



The Genesee Valley 103 

pasture fields and follow the windings of the noble stream 
by the luxuriant growth of overhanging poplars that fringe 
its banks, forming in many places a dense shaded archway, 
under which the waters dally along in graceful eddies, or 
linger in deeper pools before venturing on over the next 
gravelly shoal that obstructs its usually slow and dignified 
way. 

You here observe how much the landscape resembles the 
most beautiful parts of rural England. Nowhere in America^ 
I believe, can be found so good a representation of English 
country scenery, as are the fields which form this particular 
view. 

When the original pioneer, Wadsworth, came to the valley, 
he brought with him a love for the beautiful, and a tree was 
among the first on the Hst. Fortunately his descendants, who 
inherited these broad acres, have had the good sense and good 
taste to leave the fields studded with great forests, oaks, maples,, 
hickory, black walnut and butternut, giving to the landscape, 
as in England, the appearance of a great park. This feature 
and the fertility of the soil is one of the most noted character- 
istics of the Genesee Valley. 

Beneath the foliage of wide spreading trees, the sucklings 
and weanling hunters sport and play, and the matronly look- 
ing in-foal mares lie dreaming of the chase or counting the 
hunt cups their unborn foals are to capture at Madison Square, 
where they themselves have won high honours and the applause 
of thousands. 

It is here also, in detached herds, that the bullocks lie:^ 
gracefully dipping their wide-spreading horns in unison with 
the milling of the sweet tender grasses they hurriedly col- 
lected, fresh with the morning dew. Their half dropping: 
eyehds, the expression of ecstasy, contentment and solid com- 
fort, their mellow hides and sleek, shiny coats, all proclaim the 
fattening qualities of the nutritious forage. 



104 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

What have shady trees, mares in-foal and fattening bul- 
locks, to do with hounds and foxes ? They are, like the Indian 
tradition of the country, the essence of the sport; these are 
the things, when once you are introduced to them, or come 
to understand them, that wed you to country life. 

The writer may be pardoned for dwelling over long on 
this introduction to fox hunting in the valley, and country 
life in general. On the other hand, had he failed to notice 
this feature, he would have omitted what to some is the most 
important part and left hidden the very soul of the game. 
Country life, after all, is about the only life. It has been sadly 
lost sight of in our mad rush for dollars, since the war of 
secession. 

'.'Visit the Kennels? Why certainly." Our Master excuses 
himself to his other guests and accompanies us on the rounds 
of the kennels. He loves a hound and never tires of singing 
the praises of the pack or of displaying the superior points in 
conformation, colour and markings of each individually. 

Passing the pheasantry from which is annually liberated 
a goodly number of Mongolian or ring-necked pheasants, we 
arrived at the breeding kennels or special lying-in-rooms for 
the bitches during the whelping season. 

Buttry, the kennel huntsman, joins us here. Buttry has 
occupied this position for years, and knows more about hounds, 
hound breeding, foxes and pheasants, "than any other man 
in America," at least that is what the Hunt club members 
claim for him. The kennels have been erected in accordance 
with the ideas of the immortal Somervile, who says, 

"First let the kennel be the huntsman's care. 
Upon some little eminence erect, 
And fronting to the ruddy dawn; its court 
On either hand wide opening to receive 
The sun's all cheering beams when mild he shines." 




MR. HERBERT WADSWORTH'S HOME 




FUTURE HUNTERS AND THEIR DAMS 



The Genesee Valley 105 

Before we reach the kennels the hounds have "winded" us 
and their music begins. -They are standing in twos and threes, 
with their noses pressing the cracks in the high board fence 
surrounding their court. Those who detect in the air the 
approach of strangers, are barking like watch-dogs, but the 
older hounds who also discover in it the approach of the Master, 
are baying to it with joyous exclamations in anticipation of 
the unkenneling which is sure to follow. 

Buttry's voice outside the kennels rises above the hound 
clamour within, and the tumult gradually ceases with a few 
sharp barks, mutterings and smothered growlings, that can't 
stop altogether when it once gets started. 

The entry room — Buttry's room — contains almost every- 
thing from coupling irons to distemper cure, that a hound is 
ever likely to require and with closets for everything. We 
are helped into a kennel coat, a sort of linen duster that comes 
down to our ankles to prevent the hounds — if inclined to be too 
demonstrative — from soiling our clothes. 

The Master fills his pockets with oatmeal biscuits and leads 
the way to the south wing of the kennels — the bitches' 
quarters. They are all outside in the open court. Buttry, who 
is inside the kennel, goes to the door and holding it open wide 
enough for one hound to enter at a time, begins drafting them 
in for our inspection. "Blue Bells! Blue Bells!" is the first 
to be called, and that beautiful bitch comes crowding her way 
through the feathering, josthng pack and trots joyfully up 
to the Master to seek in his outstretched hand the bit of biscuit 
she knows so well is there to reward her. "This is Blue Bells 
by Blue Boy, out of Bonnie Lass, the best hound I ever saw. 
Blue Bells is marked like her grandsire and has the same 
fastidious kennel habits as her dam." 

Barmaid comes next in order, and is poking her sensitive 
nose into the Master's hand before he is aware of her presence. 

"This is a daughter of Bartender," explains our Master, "a 



106 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

very grand hound, you shall see him presently." Then we 
have a short history of Barmaid's good qualities and pecuHari- 
ties. She is a very jealous hound, giving tongue to a Hne only 
as long as she is able to lead the pack. Next the blaster 
asks Buttry to show us the four daughters of Trumpeter. 
Quickstep, Frivolous, Prettymaid and Faultless, four magnifi- 
cent bitches, answer to their names, and are discussed in turn 
and collectively, our Master selecting this one to illustrate his 
idea of a perfect shoulder, another for feet and leg, and another 
for carriage of head and stern, and so on, until we have in our 
mind's eye the Master's idea of what constitutes a faultless 
hound, and the standard he is aiming to produce. Our adjec- 
tives are quite exhausted, and we begin to comprehend what 
it means to breed foxhounds to colour, size, markings, feet, 
legs, shoulders, loins, back, fling, drive, courage, endurance, 
carriage, music, nose. 

There is no domestic animal where the requirements are 
so numerous and the qualifications so exacting, as those striven 
for and produced in the modern foxhound : the horse — even the 
hunter — not excepted. 

On our way to the dog hounds, we pass through the boiler 
room where a great cauldron kettle is steaming to a slow fire, 
producing the evening feed of oatmeal, which smells good 
enough and looks clean enough to set before a king. 

"Now, Buttry," says our Master, "when you are ready we 
will have a look at Bartender," who, hearing liis name spoken 
by the ^Master within, lets go his tongue ^\dth the eagerness of 
the tillage fire alarm. The deep-mouthed Trumpeter and a 
dozen others rush to his side and join the chorus. At the same 
time, the bitches from the opposite side of the kennels and 
even the invahds in the hospital wards, loose their tongues. 

Then, ^\ith a flourish of his old hunting crop, and the report 
of its loud speaking thong, and a shout from Buttry that rises 
above the tumult without and witliin (Buttry permits no hber- 



The Genesee Valley 107 

ties with the kennel discipline, even if visitors are present) 
the tumult ceases. 

"Bartender! Bartender!" Bartender hesitates. He knows 
full well he began the disturbance, and he is not quite sure if 
he is to be called out for reproof or other^\dse. Seeing this, 
Buttry's voice changes to: "Come on, Bartender, come on, 
good dog." Thus reassured, the noble hound who is as cheery 
of compliment and as injured by a word too much as a woman, 
comes joyfully in, waving his stern hke a bending reed to a 
summer breeze, his nostrils working, liis mouth full of laughter, 
his eyes all aglow, head erect, and his Hps twitching as if about 
to speak. He has round cat-like feet, straight legs, and most 
muscular thighs; deep chest, depth of shoulder, a loin like a 
beam, and a back like a bull. His markings are perfect, body 
black, a golden tan about the edges of the back, as if the under 
and larger blanket of tan were covered with a silken one of 
smaller pattern in black. His head, full of character, is also 
black, with eyebrows and muzzle shading tan, ears black, as 
supple as chamois skin with the touch of silk velvet and also 
fringed with tan. And with it all such a grand carriage of 
head and stern. He is just as grand and perfect a hound in 
the field as he is on the flags. He was champion hound at 
Madison Square, and first prize hound with four of his get, 
including Barmaid, Villager, Bonnie Boy and Vaunter. Then 
another stud hound and special favourite is called in with as 
many of his get for comparison. 

The inspection over, the blaster takes us past the hospital, 
where several hounds are aihng, some lame from rheumatics, 
others wearing bandages — the result of cuts and thorns. How 
pleased they are to see their master, as they hobble to meet 
his caresses, hear his praise and reassurance that they will soon 
be able to join the pack. 

There are, in hound breeding, so many different and difficult 
problems to confront. There are the quarrelsome, the timid. 



108 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

the quick witted and the dull, the careless and the fastidious, 
the gluttonous and the dainty, some who require whipping, 
others coaxing, not to mention their misfortunes, sicknesses 
and individual care. Then come the more interesting ques- 
tions of selection and breeding. 

Thus a well bred pack of hounds become to a Master, who, 
like Major Wadsworth, breeds for improvement, a most in- 
teresting, most fascinating study; the above, however, is but 
the beginning. 

The nursing of the puppies through the distemper, mange, 
etc., like the mumps, chicken-pox, or measles in children, 
brings added cares to the kennel huntsman, and, likewise, 
increased affection. Then comes the huntsman's part, their 
days at "walk." The puppies must be sent to farmers and 
others who will "walk" them for a year. Then comes the more 
serious question, the drafting and killing of the imperfect 
ones, the flogging and subjection of the new entry to kennel 
discipline, their schooling and conditioning for the chase. Thus 
it comes about that each and every member of the kennel house- 
hold becomes very near, and I may say without offence, very 
dear, to the master huntsman, and kennel huntsman as well. 

I hope you have enjoyed the visit to the kennels, if so, you 
will surely enjoy the run to-day all the better for having done 
so. 

We have not time to visit the stud and hunt stables, we 
must hurry away to the meet, for our hostess there will take 
it quite to heart if we are not in time to partake of her hunt 
breakfast. 



*'Will beam with delight 
At the glorious sight 
Of a meet on the velvety lawn/' 

Poems in Pink. 

IX 

A DAY WITH THE GENESEE VALLEY HOUNDS 

THE MEET AT BEL WOOD — THE HUNT BREAKFAST — THE COVERT 
SEVEN GULLIES WHO-WHOOP. 

"l^^HAT a joyous happy crowd, to be sure! All our 
^ ^ friends are there, dressed in their smartest "hunting 
togs." The men are telling the ladies that they are look- 
ing "too excruciatingly stunning for anytliing," while Miss 
Daisy from Batavia, is answering Mr. Arthur's chaffing by 
holding her fingers in her ears, because his new waistcoat is of 
such a loud pattern. So the chaffing and small talk and apolo- 
gies and regrets for omissions and commissions go gaily on 
about the heavily laden board, everyone helping him or herself, 
or perhaps a neighbour. Our host, meanwhile, is shaking 
hands with his friends and their guests, while his visiting friends 
are assisting in the entertainment or are canvassing the lawn 
and drives that are filling with pedestrians and wagons, that 
none may go away unbidden to the feast of good things that 
has been provided within. 

"Here come the hounds," says someone on the porch, who 
is on the lookout for them, and bedlam is let loose. Four 
women meet in a bunch all talking at once, such a babble! 
One more taste, a hasty last swallow, eating and talking, and 
rushing here and there for hats and gloves, and hunting crops ; 



110 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

napkins are stuffed into handkerchief pockets to be discovered 
at the first check, ten miles away. 

"Here they come! Here they come!" as the hounds, headed 
by the first whipper-in, followed by the huntsman with the 
pack at his horse's heels, come swinging up the winding drive- 
way directly in front of the house, the Master bowing right 
and left to the general handclapping and waving of napkins 
from every available window, balcony, doorway, and porch of 
the spacious villa. 

It lacks but five minutes of the hour (eleven) when hounds 
will move on to draw the first covert. We therefore hurry out 
to join the crowd, who have already formed an admiring circle 
about the huntsman and hounds. The twelve and one half 
couple of very carefully selected hounds, are quite unconscious 
of the shower of compliments they are receiving and the click- 
ing of kodaks going on about them. 

"Toot, toot!" says the huntsman's horn, as a signal to 
mount; only two minutes more and we are off. Now all is 
confusion worse confounded. Good-byes are hurriedly spoken, 
there is an exchange of sweet-sounding salutations between 
some of the ladies that make the men pucker their lips, but to 
no purpose. A "where-is-my-horse or where-am-I-at" expres- 
sion is on everyone's face, and the whole assembly is a kaleido- 
scope. You see it all and you observe nothing. The village 
clock no sooner strikes eleven than "Toot, toot, toot!" says the 
horn, "crack, crack," says the thong of the whipper-in with an 
added correction to a new entry hound that is heading for the 
kitchen where the cook and household servants are looking on 
from behind the screen. Twenty-five hounds and seventy-five 
riders going forth to capture and bring to justice one Mr. 
Reynard, an outlaw, that the untimely death of Mrs. Farmer's 
goslings may be avenged. What a grand lot of horses ! What 
a beautiful, what a thrilHng sight ! Conveyances of all descrip- 
tions, from a four-in-hand to a rickety hotel omnibus; from a 




A MEET ON THE LAWN 




MAJOR WADSWORTH S HOME 



A Day With the Genesee Valley Hounds 111 

spider phaeton to a breaking cart. Truant lads were there, 
driving a village delivery wagon. Boys and girls who "did 
not hear the bell ring," together with farm hands who had 
hitched their plough horses to the fence, were hurrying away 
to the crown of an adjacent hill, all speeding on as if by some 
sweet frenzy seized and with the hope of viewing the chase 
away. 

"Hark! On the drag I hear their doleful notes." 

Arriving at the Fitzhugh Wood, hounds are thrown off with 
a cheer. The first wliipper-in has stationed himself where 
best to view Reynard away. The second whipper-in has gone 
in with the Master and hounds. What prettier sight can any 
one see on a fine autumn day, than a hard-working pack of 
hounds, each in great eagerness to be the first to proclaim the 
find? How they fling and drive, testing each clump of grass 
for a particle of the evasive effluvia that Reynard may have 
left in passing. 

Bartender is now seen madly feathering in the midst of a 
thicket, his "hackles" are on end as if about to speak. Seeing 
this, the Master, who as usual is hunting liis own hounds, cries 
out, "Speak to it, Bartender, speak to it, good dog." Ring- 
wood and Rally wood, hearing Bartender thus cheered on, rush 
to his side, for not only do the hounds know their own names 
but the name of the other hounds as well. Again the Master 
encourages Bartender to speak to it, but the grand old hound 
who cannot be made to tell a lie only mutters a whimper and 
passes on. 

So we all move slowly along. The delicate aroma of the 
autumn wood, the falling leaves, the crackling twigs under 
our horses' feet, all add immensely to the delights of the hour. 

The Fitzhugh covert having proved blank, we next try 
the wood farther south. What a delightful ride from wood to 
wood across the beautiful pasture fields, studded with great 
spreading shade trees, that make it more a park than a pasture ! 



112 The Hunting Field With Horse mid Hou7id 

These rides from covert to covert put every one on the best of 
terms with himself, excepting perhaps, an element who are 
out for racing each other, and who have no taste for hunting 
except the mad galloping part. But to those who are out to 
hunt, it is one of the most enjoyable features of the game. 
Horses and hounds are fresh. Anticipation and eagerness are 
plainly stamped on the faces of all. 

It begins to look as if the second covert was also a blank, 
when suddenly the musical whimpers of Barmaid, then Vil- 
lager, bring shouts of rejoicing from the riders all over the 
wood and before the echoes have ceased in the treetops, the deep 
mouthed Sampson has thrown liis tongue. "Hark to Sampson! 
Hark to Sampson!" but every hound in the pack is already 
rushing to join him or to reach a spot just ahead of him, to 
confirm the good news. On they go, "Ding-dong," go their 
tongues, as one after another they feel the line until their joy- 
ful notes swell to one grand chorus that fills the great wood 
to overflowing. 

Tally-Oh! Tally-Oh! Gone away, Tally-Ho-gon-a-way. 

Now then, friend, we are off. Cram down your hat, take 
your mount well in hand and ride to the limit of his pace, or 
you may never see the stern of a hound again for the day. 

Isn't it glorious? The first burst of speed, when you are 
feeling very fit, and your horse is feeling just a little above 
himself? 

"Where now are all your sorrows, disappointments, wrongs? 
All! All! are gone and in the rushing wind. 
Left far behind." 

"Listen!" asks a rider of his neighbour, "do you still hear the 
hounds? No?" Then they have run out of hearing or have come 
to a check. We hope it is the latter and so it turns out. But 
what a gallop, twenty minutes on the grass! There is not a 
horse or rider whose greed for pace is still unsatisfied. 



A Day With the Genesee Valley Hounds 113 

Four miles from the find and hounds are really at fault. 
Their own cast being ineffectual, the Master moves them care- 
fully forward in a circular swing, and on arriving well back 
of where their music ceased, sure enough, Reynard had played 
his first trump card. He had stopped suddenly on the line he 
was pursuing, jumped wide to the right or left, and was prob- 
ably running back on a parallel line to the way he came. The 
hounds were running at such a great speed, they overshot the 
line, as the artful Reynard knew they would do. It is an 
old and favourite trick, but thanks to our Master's woodcraft, 
the run is by no means over. In casting well back, the hounds 
hit off the line, and once more the "heavenly music" fills all the 
valley and echoes from hill to hill. By this time it is common 
gossip among the crows and blue jays for miles about that a 
chicken-tliief fox is again on foot with the white, black and tan 
chorus hard after. What a race! That five foot stake and 
rider fence stopped half of the field, sent some to the grass, 
until a heavy weight lumbering hunter smashes the three top 
rails and lets the field get through. What a jolly party joins 
in the chase as we enter the field, fifty racing bullocks and half 
as many brood mares and their foals join in the gallop! 

What a sight! Even the heavy milch cows and the plod- 
ding old farm mares forgetful of their infirmities, have joined 
the glad throng that goes galloping on with, 

"Three cheers for the science, three cheers for the chase. 
The hounds that ne'er falter nor tire. 
Three cheers for the cattle that join in the race. 
The old mare and her foal filled with fire." 

Once more a check, now then, Mr. Reynard, what is your 
plot to fool the hounds this time? It is plain enough. As we 
come into an open field he has run amongst a flock of sheep„ 
knowing full well his own scent will be lost by their stain. 
Which way now? The answer is plain. Towards yonder hill. 



114 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

the dreaded "Seven Gullies." Our Master sees another flock of 
sheep all looking in one direction, he hears the jay birds jaw- 
ing like fish wives in the wood beyond. The crows also are 
collecting there like turkey buzzards to help "do" the outlaw 
of the wood. Seven Gullies is Reynard's point. Now friend, 
harden your heart and ride to save your horse, for a trial of 
strength and endurance beyond estimate lies before you. 

What's to be done? The signs of a travelling fox on yonder 
hill make it certain that we are in for it up to our eyes. Between 
riders and their game lies the Caneseraga river, a most difficult 
water to cross. It is three to four rods wide, runs silent and 
deep between precipitous banks of alluvial deposit. No shal- 
lows nor bridge for a mile or more either way. Now, lads, you 
may come along, for away sails the Master, lifting the hounds 
smartly on along the dreaded Caneseraga. Sure enough the 
leading hound along the river bank is madly feathering. "Ding- 
dong," goes her tongue, every hound turns to her cry, as they 
race away along the bank. Then halting suddenly they make 
their own cast back and one, two, three at a time, throw them- 
selves headlong down the bank and are swimming for the 
opposite shore. It is good ten feet from the turf to the water, 
but there is no time to question where or how. Down goes one 
rider, another follows hard after. Other places are found in 
the yielding bank and in less than five minutes the creek had 
troubled waters and the riders troubled hearts, for the tallest 
horses could just wade across and keep their heads above water. 
A plucky farmer's son riding a roan pony, that goes completely 
under water as he enters the stream, is now swimming for it. 
Our boots are filling with water in spite of our best effort to 
hold them above it. But cheer up, the worst is yet to come. 
Although the opposite bank is not so steep, the miry condition 
of the soil makes it almost impossible for horses to take their 
riders out, but their blood is up and away go the horses and 
riders, dripping like sheep at a river washing. It is plain to 



A Day With the Genesee Valley Hounds 115 

see that Reynard's point is the dreaded "Seven GulHes." Only 
the best conditioned horses and riders go on with the game. 

We race away up the crest of the hill and by the time we 
reach there, "There's many a bellows to mend." What an 
awful hole this first gully is! Dismount and scramble down 
the best you can, for the sides are as steep as a mansard roof. 
Well done, but what a dark damp dismal place it is in the 
bottom ! However, there is notliing to do for it, but to harden 
your heart and follow your leader as best you can, hanging 
on to your horse's tail to help you up. Thanks to the stout 
heart of your mount and your own stock of grit and courage, 
you at last arrive at the top on the opposite side. This ravine 
has broken the heart of more than one resolute rider and sent 
him and his good mount home with more than enough. 

Just as we expected, now we are out of this gully we are at 
the brink of another gully still more difficult to climb. There 
is notliing to do for it but go on with the game until the 
Master says, "Well, gentlemen, what say you all? Have you 
had enough?" The few who are left say to a man, "It's 
enough," but just then the hounds who have been out of hear- 
ing in some one of the seven gullies are heard returning. 
"Wait a moment," cries the Master, "hounds are running and 
are, I think, coming this way." All thoughts of home are 
banished. Once more our barometer goes up from zero 
with such a rush as to threaten going through the top of the 
glass. 

A warning hand from the Master bids everyone to keep 
perfectly still. Here come the hounds at full cry, while less 
than ten rods ahead of them comes the artful dodger, who runs 
nearly onto the riders before he discovers his error. To turn 
back against the pack is death, the next best thing for him to 
do is to take to the open fields to the east and this he does, 
cheered on by all the riders who race after him with a view of 
driving him out of the gullies. On come the hounds, who rush 



116 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

to the "Tally ho gone away," with renewed energy out into the 
open field. They are soon running their fox from scent to 
view. "Hi! Hi! Hi!" shout the riders, as they race away to the 
top of their horses' speed. "Hi! Hi! Hi!" One field more! 
Whatever is left of fox, hounds, horses and riders is now being 
put to the test, Reynard's brush is not three rods from the 
leading hound. "Hi! Hi! Hi!" cheer on the riders, who are 
but a field beliind the hounds. Reynard's point is evidently an 
open earth which he knows about in the edge of the wood 
he has nearly reached. Go on, good hounds, go on, good horses, 
but no, it is not to be. In a hollow ahead of the hounds and 
just out of view, Reynard plays the winning card and is well 
back on the way to the Seven Gullies, which has saved the 
brush of hundreds of his tribe and family, and will probably 
save his own for years to come. Nevertheless, as Williams 
says, 

"JLong may he live to repeat the good story 
He told us to-day in this wonderful run. 
We'll drink to his honour and sing to his glory 
With all the good fellows who shared in the fun." 

It was a hard day, but it was worth it and more. Horses 
and hounds and riders were done to a turn, still there is enough 
left in them to jog, jog, jog, trot, trot, trot, the long ride 
home, where at last they arrive tired, dirty, hungry and 
happy, to the hearty dinners that await their coming. For the 
riders, at least, there are also good friends, dear friends, and 
possibly sweet friends to welcome them and to encourage them 
in living the run over again, while the fences grow higher, the 
ditches wider, the creeks become rivers and the gullies canyons. 



To Dr. Fred Capon, Toronto, Ontario. 

For all-round Sportsmen Canada wins. 
They're the best set of fellows that live. 
Hunting, shooting, yachting and all 
With a handy foot for a skate or a ball. 
And a welcome as free as a sieve. 

X 

HUNTING IN CANADA 

PLENTY OF SPORT OUR NEIGHBOURS A CANADIAN SPORTSMAN 

YACHTING THE TORONTO HUNT CLUB WOMEN RIDERS 

A sportsman's PARADISE. 

TF you are of a sporting turn of mind, you will find more 
■'' boating, yachting, shooting, fishing or hunting, to the 
square inch in Canada than anywhere in the western hemi- 
sphere. 

In the first place, the English and the Scotch blood that 
runs in the veins of our Canadian cousins has suffered little 
or none by being transplanted to a new soil. School and col- 
lege sports are played there, more as they are in England; 
i. e., for the fun of it. Lacrosse, the national game, baseball, 
cricket, canoeing, rage not as fads but as an effervescing 
expression of sport for sport's sake. They must play. Noth- 
ing can stop them. 

Yachting commences with the going out of the ice in the 
spring and stops at the beginning of winter, a little before 
ice boating begins. 



118 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

From the good old English game of bowling on the green 
to the grand old Scotch game of curling on the ice, the elderly 
men have as little break in their- accustomed sports as do their 
sons and daughters. 

Hockey on the grass keeps the young men in fettle for 
hockey on the ice and vice versa. Skating, tobogganing, snow 
shoeing and ice carnivals make the winter more active than 
the summer, and fill out the year with a round of arduous 
sports that appeals to all. 

The writer speaks of the Canadian sportsmen from a very 
intimate acquaintance. He has repeatedly met them in inter- 
national yacht races, a place to try men's souls. For if any- 
thing will hunt out unsportsmanlike qualities in a man, you 
can depend upon it an international yacht race will do the 
work to perfection. 

You may put him, as the writer has, to an even severer 
test; viz., take him for a companion on a week's hunting trip 
where you must carry your own kit, and pitch your camp 
when night overtakes you under a tent or a lean-to of poles 
and balsam boughs, and unless your experience differs mate- 
rially from the writer's, you will find him, whatever his faults, 
a true sportsman, always doing his share, a gentleman and a 
friend to the end. 

America, to her lasting reproach, has seldom played fair 
with Canada. As a nation we have chased after the trade 
and traffic of islands washed by the most distant seas and 
have slapped in the face our next door neighbour, the best 
customer we have in the world. We have practised the Golden 
Rule with Cuba and the Philippines, wliile we have never loved 
our neighbour as ourselves. 

Instead of cultivating Canada, we have invariably driven 
her to buy abroad, what she would naturally have bought 
nearer home. Americans, as a rule, have never appreciated 
Canada nor the Canadian people, simply because we do not 




DR. F. J. CAPON 




THE MONTREAL KENNELS 



Hunting in Canada 119 

know them and will not take the trouble to make their 
acquaintance. Nevertheless, every American who does 
know the Canadians at all well, will agree with the writer in 
saying that as a nation, the Canadian people have no superior. 
The time will come and is coming fast when Americans will 
wake up to the fact that they are living beside a nation and a 
competitor of no second-rate importance. I would like my 
readers to have a glimpse of a Canadian sportsman as he is 
at home. 

As a fair example, let me introduce you to my friend, 
formerly Vice-Commodore of the Royal Canadian Yacht 
Club of Toronto. Here he comes now on the way to his yacht 
the Fou Fou. 

A misguided youth at the club the night before made the re- 
mark that the Fou Fou was a racing machine and could not be 
beaten, when the Commodore turned on him with some warmth 
saying, "I will sail your boat and you can sail the Fou Fou, 
and I'll beat you or lose ten dollars." That's the Commodore. 
The Fou Fou is of the skimming dish order, twenty-five 
feet over all and sixteen feet water line, that had, with the 
Commodore at the helm, been winning hands down. This ac- 
counts for his errand to the bay so early in the day. 

"I'm a truant from business this morning. Come along," 
he cries, "you are just in time. I have been trying to pick up 
a crew all the way down." 

It was a race from start to finish and the Fou Fou was 
beaten by the length of her stumpy bowsprit. 

The race over, we slipped into our riding breeches for a 
ride to the Toronto Hunt Club and to visit the kennels. We 
took an indirect route for the Hunt Club to give our horses a 
chance "to show their irons" in clearing a few fences and 
ditches on the way, also for the purpose of crossing a wide, 
open field where they could lay themselves out in a racing 
gallop on the beautiful turf. 



120 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

"It takes the kinks out of their legs," explains the Commo- 
dore, "and gives them a relish for a good feed of oats at the 
club, while we are 'worrying' a beefsteak for ourselves." 

Thus we arrive at the Hunt Club stables, horses and riders 
feeling what a privilege it is to live in a land where a cross 
country gallop is indulged in, to the enjoyment of man and 
beast. 

The writer has certainly had his share and perhaps more 
of the joys of hving, but there is no one spot on all the 
earth he has ever visited that fits him all round, that touches 
him on every side, like Toronto. To sail a smart yacht, to 
ride a good horse, to visit one of the best packs of hounds and 
most orderly kennels, at a most homelike Hunt Club situated 
on a bluff overlooking Lake Ontario; and then spend an 
evening by a hickory fire, talking yacht and hound, horse and 
sails and bits and anchors with the best fellows alive, until the 
servants had retired and the fire burnt to coals and the coals 
to ashes — well, that's Toronto. 

There is also a Hunt Club at Hamilton, another at Guelph, 
Woodstock and London. No better cross country horses 
come to the States than those which are found in this part of 
Canada. It is owing to the universal use of thoroughbreds 
that Canada has been able to send to the States hundreds of 
horses annually, for saddle and hunting purposes. 

The oldest organised "Hunt Club" in Canada, which 
I believe is also the oldest in America, is at Montreal, where 
they hunt the wild red fox over a rough broken country. They 
have a very fine club house at the foot of Mount Royal, which 
overlooks a most beautiful vale and farming land, suggest- 
ing a landscape not unlike good old England. The club 
possesses a fine pack of hounds and the best appointed ken- 
nels the writer knows of in America, the Middlesex alone 
excepted. 

The few days' cub hunting which the writer enjoyed with 



Hunting in Canada 121 

this pack, was enough to show him that the whole turnout 
was as ably conducted as most of the up-to-date English 
packs. 

If a hunt breakfast at the meet and a dinner at the club 
after a day's hunting, to talk it all over, is not enough to con- 
vert you, or if a few hunting songs, a Highland jig, or a sword 
dance (by the popular M. F. H.) is not enough to put you 
"en rapport" with fox hunting for the rest of your days, your 
case is hopeless. At any rate, that is the way they round out 
a good hunting day "in due and ancient form," even as their 
daddies have done in merry England and bonny Scotland, 
since the beginning. That's INIontreal. 

But we did not finish with Toronto. You must stay for a 
few days' hunting, if only to please the Commodore and see a 
lot of good gentlemen, and the very best lot of women riders 
the writer has ever met with in a single day's run to hounds. 
These Toronto ladies are not only the most accomplished 
riders, but they are the pride and glory of the Toronto Hunt. 

"You must stay over," says my friend, "I want you to see 
our ladies riding to hounds. It will strain your heart even 
if it is past breaking just to see them, and break your neck 
perhaps trying to keep pace with them ; nevertheless, I am sure 
you will say, 'it is worth it.' The same afternoon they will 
sail you a race and the same evening," continues he, "you will 
find them the best partners for a dance you ever had on your 
arm." 

We stayed not once, but many times, and although some 
years have gone by since then, the mere mention of Canada 
brings a vision of racing yachts, racing hounds, racing riding 
habits that would not and could not be overtaken, to say nothing 
of the charming partners that nearly danced us to a standstill, 
all of which has left in the writer's mind a hunger and thirst for 
more Toronto, more Canada. Nor have we said all. It is 
here we stock our kits for an annual shooting trip to lower 



122 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

Canada and sail away with dogs and guns down the St. 
Lawrence and its rapids, to join our guides in the forest of 
Nova Scotia or New Brunswick; but all that is in pickle for 
some future time, when the pencil is sharp and the season is 
ripe. 

May the yachts of Toronto Bay never grow less in number; 
may hound's music never cease at the Toronto kennels; may 
the daughters of the hunt ever remain the pride and delight 
of their fathers, their brothers, their lovers and their friends, 
and may they leave to the generation to come, daughters and 
sons of their own to perpetuate true sport to the end of time. 

Long live Toronto, a sportsman's paradise! Long live 
Canada, the cradle of sportsmen good and true ! 



PART II 
HUNTING IN EUROPE 



To Sir Gilbert Greenall, Bart. 

M. F. H. Belvoir Hunt, 

England. 

"There's honesty written in characters clear 
And bravery stands by her side. 
You feel when you look on his manly career. 
That these are the men that make England so dear. 
The men that fill England with pride/' 

Poems in Pink. 



XI 
HUNTING IN ENGLAND 

PACKS OF HOUNDS — HUNTING CENTRES — COST — GRASS COUN- 
TRIES RACING PACKS FOXES WHERE TO GO — NATIONAL 

CHARACTERISTICS. 

np HERE are in the United Kingdom (England, Scotland 
-■■ and Ireland) sometliing like four hundred and fifty 
organised Hunt Clubs that follow the chase on certain days of 
the week from the first of October to the first of April or May. 
This is to say nothing of numerous trencher-fed packs and 
small garrison hunts to be met with in many parts of Great 
Britain. Bailey's Hunt Directory gives the number of jDacks of 
foxhounds with regular fixtures in England as one hundred 
and sixty- five, Ireland twenty-four, Scotland eleven; total, two 
hundred. H. A. Brayden in liis interesting book "Hare Hunt- 
ing and Harriers," says, "There are but two less than two 
hundred packs of Harriers." There are also sixteen packs of 
staghounds in England alone. It is safe to say there are forty 
or fifty packs of otterhounds, and foot beagles, to say nothing 
of draghounds, wliich number only nine for the United King- 
dom. It is also safe to say that of the one hundred and sixty-five 
packs of foxhounds in England, over one hundred are within a 
radius of fifty miles of Leamington, which may be considered 
the hunting centre of England. This is spoken of as "The 
Midlands," "The Cream of the Shires," "Grass Countries," 
etc. 

If we take for instance, Utica, N. Y., for a centre and from 
it draw a circle of the same radius, the outer edges of the circle 
would include Watertown on the north, Albany on the east, 
Binghamton on the south. Auburn on the west. Think of 
having over one hundred organised packs of foxhounds within 



126 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

this territory, to say nothing of harriers, otterhounds, beagle 
and staghounds. This will probably give the reader a very 
correct idea of the popularity of hunting in England. It is 
the national pastime for men after they leave school and col- 
lege. It would be mere guesswork to estimate the millions 
of dollars expended yearly in England alone, for the indul- 
gence of this noble and manly sport.* 

Fox hunting in England is a very expensive luxury, but 
there are so many subscribers that the expense to an individual 
member is not very great after all. It costs some of the grass 
country packs £10,000 to £12,000, ($50,000 to $60,000) a 
year. For instance, the Master of the Grafton receives a sub- 
scription of £8,000 per year, and adds £3,000 per annum out 
of his own pocket. This sum goes first for the maintenance of 
the hunt, the mounting of the huntsman and the wliippers-in, 
the poultry fund — the hunt paying liberally all claims made for 
poultry or lambs said to be destroyed by foxes. The hunt 
also pays for the maintenance of certain coverts, the laying 
down of others and the removal of wire fencing. 

As to the individual cost of hunting, it ranges from a free 
ride for the farmer element of the hunt to as much as a swagger 
chappie cares to spend. Tliis applies to America as well as 
England. 

A $125 hunter carries one man better than a $2,500 
hunter carries another. For the man who has enough but 
wishes to economise, a $500 hunter boarded at $20 per month 
during the hunting season, pastured during the summer 
and made to rough it during the winter — out of the hunting 
season — may hunt once a week and enjoy more sport than the 

*In an article on "England and the English" in Scribner's Magazine 
for March, 1909, the writer says: "An accepted authority upon all 
matters of sport in England has compiled some figures as to the invest- 
ment and expenditures upon sport. . . . Invested in fox hunting, $78,- 
035,000 : spent annually for the same, $43,190,000. 



Hunting in England 127 

other man with a big string of thousand dollar hunters with 
grooms and stable boys — "Heating their 'eads off." 

Once a week is about hunting enough for a single horse, 
that is, with most riders, but some men can ride to hounds 
twice and even three days a week with only one horse, but that 
one of course, must be a thoroughly seasoned, qualified hunter 
that knows the game and is ridden by a man who knows how 
to ride to save his horse. 

The writer knows several men in England who ride to 
hounds five days a week with only two hunters and a hack to 
ride or drive to the "meets." They rarely, if ever, miss a day, 
rain or shine, and this, often, on horses that are little above 
screws. Again their neighbour with a stable of ten or twelve 
hunters that cost from one thousand to two thousand dollars 
each, may not have a horse in the string fit to ride after the 
first month. It is simply impossible, therefore, to give an esti- 
mate of the cost of hunting. The only way to find out is to 
cut and try. In yachting one man will get more sport and 
pleasure out of a twenty foot yacht costing $250 than 
the next man does from a $250,000 investment. It is not so 
much a question of cost as inclination. Hunting is more a 
question of the size of a man's heart for the love of the game, 
than the size of his pocketbook. When there is a will, the way 
is seldom hard to find. 

It is a fact within the observation of all that, as a rule, the 
men who indulge in outdoor sports and enjoy life as they live 
it are seldom found among those who can have what they want, 
but rather amongst those who adapt themselves to what they 
can have. If they cannot afford a 40 foot yacht, they own or 
hire a 20 footer. If they cannot buy a qualified hunter, they 
can at least see the fun from the back of a colt that is growing 
into a hunter. It might be too much to say that poverty is a 
passport to becoming a sportsman, but it is by no means such 
a drawback as some suppose. There are thousands of men 



128 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

in England who "never had money enough," as they say in 
]Micliigan, "to wad a gun," but who are never without a hunter 
to ride, a yacht to sail, and a gun for big game or small. 

O^^ing to the decline in agriculture in England, there is 
comparatively little land under the plough. Hay and grazing 
are the chief source of agricultural revenue. Especially is this 
the case in the principal limiting centres already referred to 
as the "Grass Countries." There one may gallop from morn- 
ing until night over fields that have been in turf for 100 
to 200 years, possibly more, and seldom meet Avith a bit of 
plough land outside of a garden patch. The ^Midlands are 
therefore very attractive to the hard riding and racing men 
who congregate there by the thousands, many of them to hunt 
five or even six days during the week. 

In the first place, the damp moist climate is just suited to 
the laying of scent and the great grass fields afford the best 
possible conditions for holding the same. This makes it possible 
for hounds to race away to the fine \Wth heads up and at a 
rate that only the very highest class horses can follow. 

As above intimated, the "^lidlands" attract largely the men 
who hunt to ride, and for that same reason are quite as repelling 
to many men who ride to hunt. It is unnecessary to say the 
wi'iter has a most decided preference for the latter school; he 
holds that hunting the fox is one tiling, racing him to death 
quite another. If, for instance, these racing packs of hounds 
are hard pressed by a racing crowd of riders, wliich often num- 
ber from one to three hundred, and there is a check, and Rey- 
nard has turned back, there is no recovering the line. It is, there- 
fore, largely a huntsman's game. Instead of gi^^ing the hounds 
a chance to hunt their fox, they are generally lifted smartly on 
w^th a gamble on the chance of recovering the line or picking 
up another fine for another race. Still, ever\'' hunting man 
who \-isits England should at least have a fling with a Grass 
Country pack ; they do the thing up proper and smart, and on 



Hunting in England 129 

a good horse they will give him the ride of his life. He will 
find at the principal hunting centres such as Melton, ^Market 
Harborough, Grantham, Rugby, Leicester, Oakham, etc., that 
he is among the best horses, the best riders, the best packs of 
hounds to be found in the world. He wull find Enghsh sports- 
men rather shy and hard to get acquainted with \\ithout a letter 
of introduction, but when once the icy exterior is broken you 
have a man you can hitch to, a friend you can swear by and a 
companion you can love. From jNIelton you may hunt with the 
Quorn, Cottesmore, Belvoir. From ^Market Harborough with 
the Cottesmore, Pytchley and ]Mr. Fernie's hounds. From 
Rugby with the Pytchley, Atherstone, War\dcksliire and 
North Warwickshire. From Leicester, Mr. Fernie's, Ather- 
stone, Quorn. From Oakham, the Belvoir, Quorn, Cottes- 
more. All of these packs, we believe, hunt five days a 
week. By a short train run you may hunt over a still wider 
district. 

From what has been said it must not be inferred that all 
the best packs of England are within this enchanted ground. 
So far, mention has been made of but eight different packs; 
there must still remain sometliing over a hundred first class 
packs in England alone to select from. 

Another charm about hunting in England is the style and 
neatness in wliich it is everywhere conducted. 

In the writer's personal experience he may mention the 
Holderness near Hull, a racing pack, where mostly clean thor- 
oughbreds are ridden. It is quite as fast as the fastest in the 
INIidlands. Then comes the Earl of Yarborough's celebrated 
pack in Lincolnshire. These hounds have a written pedigree 
extending back 125 years and are known to have been in the 
family for thirty years prior to that. ^lany years ago, when 
agriculture was prosperous in England, Lord Yarborough, 
who was a very extensive lando'uiier, went so far in encourag- 
ing his tenant farmers to limit, that he presented them all with 



130 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

a full hunting suit, pink coat and all. To this day most of the 
tenant farmers in that portion of the country enjoy the sport. 
Some one asked Lord Yarborough how he managed to secure 
such a lot of first class tenant farmers. "I don't secure them," 
he replied. "I breed them." This is almost literally true, for 
most of the leases have been handed down from father to son 
since the beginning. 

The writer well recalls a meet of these famous hounds, M. 
F. H. the Earl of Yarborough, at the farm of Mr. Charles 
Dudding, a famous sheep breeder. There were over two hun- 
dred and fifty riders at this meet and over half were farmers or 
farmers' sons. Our host stayed at home to dispense the good 
things from his hospitable board, which were partaken of by 
Lords and tenant farmers alike. 

Then there is the Blankney, near Nottingham, one of the 
best all round packs of hounds the writer ever hunted with in 
England. The Blankney is the greatest ditch country the 
writer ever encountered. The foxes take a lot of hunting and 
much kilhng but there are plenty of them and a blank day is 
unknown. One run with this level, hard-working pack, who 
hunt down their game in the most workmanlike manner, will 
never be forgotten by the writer. 

With our old friend Kirkham, whom readers of "Cross 
Country with Horse and Hound" may remember, the writer 
started out for Bishopsthorpe for a day with the Blankney. 
It was a prime hunting morning and our horses were quite 
above themselves. Hounds jumped their fox on the way to 
covert and we were well off before we knew what had happened. 
The hounds swooped down the incline after him like a flock of 
migrating birds. They ran him so hard that in the last field 
they were not a rod from liis brush. Straight for the cottage 
rolled the bundle of fur, the hounds gaining, but very slowly. 
Through two or three fields hounds pressed their game hard, 
so hard in fact, he ran straight for a little thatched cottage. 



Hunting in England 131 

The door of the cottage being open, the fox ran into the house 
and was pulled down by the hounds under the dining room 
table. When the huntsman could get in there the old lady was 
standing on top of a small table, her dress pulled tightly about 
her ankles, and screaming at the top of her voice. Underneath 
and around the dining room table twenty-two couple of hounds 
were quarrelling and fighting for possession of their game. As 
the huntsman reached the door a table leg gave way and over 
went the dishes, dinner and all among the surging, snarling 
pack. This pack at that time had hunted ninety-eight days 
and had killed one hundred and one foxes. 

"The Vale of the White Horse Hunt" is another genuine 
hunting institution, and Cirencester, where the hounds are 
located, is a convenient centre. Some of the most charming 
men in all England train with these hounds. Then there is the 
Warwickshire, with which pack the writer had a memorable 
run in the wake of that most accomplished cross country rider, 
the Countess of Warwick. The South Staffordshire Hunt near 
Lichfield is the right sort altogether. It was the custom of 
these big-hearted Staffordshire farmers to put a good piece of 
fresh meat at each fox's earth on Christmas eve, so they might 
enjoy like themselves a good Xmas dinner. A fox's mask 
and brush presented to the writer by the master. Sir Charles 
Cooper, at the end of a hard day's run, is especially prized. 
And last but not least, a day with the North Warwickshire 
hounds from Banbury Cross with our esteemed friend and 
sportsman. Artist J. Crawford Wood, whose clever hand did 
so much to enrich the chapters of "Cross Country with Horse 
and Hound," was most enjoyable. 

It was from Banbury Cross "upon a cock horse" that many 
a hunting man received liis first taste of cross country, riding 
astride his father's stout boot, that always managed to spill him 
over the last fence or ditch. 

Wherever you may drop down on the sod of Merry Eng- 



132 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

land you will find yourself in reach of a pack of hounds and 
wherever that is you will find also, first class accommodations 
for man and beast, and someone not too far away of whom you 
may hire a mount. 

Of all the delightful places to put up, a village inn in a 
favourite hunting district fills the bill. The larger hotels are as 
a rule dreary, lonesome, forbidding affairs. 

At all the leading hunt centres there are any quantity of 
hunting boxes with first class stabHng for rent from £60 to 
£600 or more for the season. It is quite the fashion in Eng- 
land to hire such a small country or suburban box with two to 
four acres of land and to leave the hunters there all summer 
in charge of a groom. Some sell out root and branch and 
buy again a few months before the season opens. Others flit 
about, hunting from a dozen different centres during the sea- 
son, depending on mounts from "Jobmasters." Tliis is as 
economical a way as any, and as most Jobmasters will mount 
a man, especially a stranger, as well or better than he can 
mount himself, it usually gives good satisfaction, especially 
to visiting sportsmen. 

What astonishes an American most is where all the foxes 
come from to supply each club with three to five kills a week. 
A blank day is quite unusual anywhere, and a day when there 
is a run that the fox fails to be accounted for is also unusual. 
Frank Gillard during his 26 years as huntsman to the Belvoir 
killed 2709 foxes, an average of over 100 per season, which is 
also about the average number of runs between the opening 
day about September 15th and the closing day in the latter 
part of April. There are many other packs that can show as 
good and even better records than the above. Americans who 
are mostly accustomed to blank days and runs without a kill 
wonder at the great difference in this respect between the two 
countries. It is easily accounted for. First, nearly every farm 
in Great Britain is a game preserve and most of the larger 



Hunting in England 133 

estates have gamekeepers who rear and put out thousands of 
pheasants, partridges and grouse. Rabbits and hares are plen- 
tiful nearly everywhere. On this account English-bred foxes 
have always plenty of food at hand, while in the States a fox 
must travel a great distance to obtain a meagre living. English 
foxes come up in daily sight of gamekeepers and others who are 
most careful not to disturb them. American foxes on the con- 
trary are as wild as possible. They are hardened to travel 
and have found in their wide going about every available 
spot of safety. On these accounts they are rarely run into and 
never will be until we have earth stoppers to locate them and 
plenty of rabbits and other game for them to eat. 

The writer has often been asked where to go to see the most 
interesting sport in following the chase. From his hmited 
knowledge he would suggest the following: 

Reach England by August 1st. Have a day at least with 
the Essex otterhounds, headquarters at Chelmsford. Then 
locate at the Peacock Inn, Belvoir near Grantham, for a visit 
to the famous castle and kennels and a week's cub hunting with 
the finest pack and the best new entry hounds in the world. 
Then go to Minehead, Somerset, for the opening meet of the 
Devon and Somerset staghounds, about August 15th. There 
will be seen four or five hundred riders and about as many 
pedestrians at the meet, which is always at Cloutsham. The 
mount must be engaged sometime ahead. Then on the way 
back to London have a day in the Quantock Hills from Taun- 
ton, hunting the wild red deer. By this time the fox hunting 
season is open. Then fly away to the opening meet of the 
Quorn, which is always at Kirby Gate. Opening meets as a 
rule are, on account of the crowd, to be avoided, but any hunt- 
ing man visiting England should not fail to see the show. 
After a week with the Quorn, settle down at Melton Mowbray 
or Oakham or Leicester, and have a day with the Pytchley, 
Atherstone and Cottesmore. Then try a week with Lord 



134 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

Rothschild's staghounds, locating at the Red Lion Hotel, 
Leighton Buzzard. Whatever you do, don't miss the Blankney 
Hunt and a few days with the Windermere Harriers in the 
most beautiful part of beautiful Great Britain, with head- 
quarters at Ambleside, Lake Windermere, or better still, the 
Ferry Hotel across the lake from Bowness. 

Then if you would like a good jolly drag hunt, go out with 
the students of Oxford University. It is the real thing and the 
best drag hunting, to the writer's notion, in England; besides 
Oxford is the finest town in all England, in which to spend 
a few weeks. If you can sprint a little, a day with one of 
the three college foot beagles will quite complete the role. This 
should give you the best in variety that England has to offer 
and that is the best in the world. If by this time, you are not 
in love with rural England and English methods of field 
sports, the writer will be greatly disappointed, for in spite of 
its "beastly" weather (it has no climate) , it is the ideal country 
of all the world for a man who loves outdoor sports and rural 
life. 

One mistake that most Americans make in visiting England 
is in rushing from Liverpool to London visiting a few cathedral 
towns and deceiving themselves with the idea that they have 
done England. 

A few letters of introduction will put you right, but with- 
out them your progress vdll be slow and your welcome very 
incomplete. Englishmen are very shy of strangers, especially 
foreigners, until they know from someone who or what you 
are. As a rule, it is not a question of wealth. If you are a bit 
of a sportsman, you are welcome even if you are poor. If you 
can shoot or sing, drive or play, ride or write, whatever your 
accomplishments, you are welcome. The question of how much 
you are worth financially is not the first and last question 
to be determined. There is less snobbishness among the long 
pedigreed nobility of England than is often found among 



Hunting in England 135 

wealthy Americans, who don't know the pedigree of their 
near ancestors. 

"A fine old English Gentleman I see, 
A friend, a companion, to cheer, 
A sportsman he is from his head to his heels. 
The best breeds of cattle are found in his fields. 
He is honest and true, never fear" 



''Wondrous Belvoir, to tin/ Spacious Vale, 
Sweet Castle and tluj farthest prospects hail. 
Where Margumuni, seat of heroes old. 
Once stood." 

Peck (A. D. 1727) 

''Far shall his pack he famed, far sought his breed/' 

Somervile. 

XII 

A DAY WITH THE BELVOIR FOXHOUNDS 

THE PEACOCK INN BELVOIR CASTLE — BELVOIR KEXNELS 

NOTED HUNTSMEN PERFECTION IN HOUND BREEDING — 

BEN CAPELL. 

TT would certainly be an omission to serve stuffed goose 
-*■ without the stuffing. It would be equally as great an omis- 
sion to attempt to describe fox hunting in England without 
putting in a day with the Belvoir. 

The present INIaster — Sir Gilbert Greenall, Bart. — is to be 
congratulated for his adherence to the time honoured customs 
and hunting traditions of the chase, especially in a country 
where the temptation to lower hunting to something resem- 
bling a cross between steeplechasing and flat racing is the 
rule. It must not be inferred from this that the Belvoir is 
a "slow country," for it is not, but there seems to be more of 
the hunting spirit in it than in some so-called swagger packs 
that hunt the grass countries. However, "Everyone to liis 
liking." 

It would be a great pleasure for the writer to take his 



A Day With the Belvoir Foxhounds 137 

readers to the hunting field where the jM aster has a kindly wel- 
come for all, and where liis clever huntsman, Ben Capell, is a 
star performer, among the best of liis craft in handling the 
pack, and an artist in outwitting his game. 

Xevertheless good and perfect as is the management and 
appointment of the Belvoir Hunt in the field, its crowning 
glory is at the kennels. As this most celebrated pack of hounds 
has for many years enjoyed the distinction of being the "pre- 
mier pack of Great Britain," the writer has decided to devote 
this chapter to "A Day vdih. the Hounds at Belvoir Kennels," 
rather than in the field. 

Whosoever has followed the writer's chapter on hound 
breeding, rearing and management in "Cross Country with 
Horse and Hounds," as well as his remarks on the subject in 
previous chapters of this book, will readily understand the 
value he places on hound breeding as it is generally conducted 
in England, and pardon liim, it is hoped, if in this chapter 
he repeats some of the thoughts expressed in his previous work. 

To anyone at all interested in hound breeding, a visit to 
the Belvoir Kennels is most enjoyable. The annual Peter- 
boro' Hound Show is sometliing beautiful to see, and no hunt- 
ing man visiting England, in the month of July, should fail to 
attend it. But interesting as the Peterboro' show is, a day 
at Belvoir and a chat ^\ith the cheerj^ huntsman is the best 
show of all. If you go once, you will surely wish to go again, 
at least the writer found his seventh annual pilgrimage to Bel- 
voir more interesting than ever before. Possibly he cannot do 
better than attempt to take his readers there in the usual course. 
From London we ^Y\\\ ticket to Grantham. "A feed" at the 
"Angel," and a drive to Belvoir Castle, where we put up at 
the "Peacock," a wayside inn under the shadow of Belvoir 
Castle. Belvoir Castle is one of the most beautiful, as well as 
one of the best preserved castles of feudal times now standing 
in England. Our stout hostess of the Peacock, with a coun- 



138 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

tenance as shiny as good soap and water can make it, and as 
ruddy as good blood can colour it, takes us in hand like the 
mother she is to all her guests. We drop into the place that 
seems to fit us like a pair of old slippers, and are contented 
and comfortable from the first. 

We then dispatch a note to the kennels to inquire if it will 
be convenient for us to visit them on the following afternoon, 
the time of day most huntsmen prefer callers. 

While lunch is being prepared, we will visit the stable yard 
where there is sure to be a couple of hound puppies at walk, 
and some hunters in sight — or take a stroll along the highway 
where pheasants and rabbits are always in view. 

At lunch our hostess entertains us with information con- 
cerning the visit we are to pay to the castle, which is open to 
visitors from 2 to 4 p. m. This she seasons with a bit of gossip 
concerning the present owner, the 7th Duke of Rutland, and 
the other great dukes and duchesses, and lesser members of 
this historic family. John Manners, the second son of the first 
Earl of Rutland, will be remembered for all time as the hero 
of a most romantic love affair with Dorothy Vernon, daughter 
of the fierce "King of the Peak." How John Manners lay 
for days and nights in the wood about Haddon Hall for a 
glimpse of his sweetheart and how on a dark rainy night, 
he rode to the hall and while the dancers footed it merrily in 
the "festal light," Dorothy Vernon shpped away from the ball 
room, was lifted into the saddle and galloped away through the 
forest with her determined lover. How the infuriated father, 
with fifty mounted riders, rode madly after in fruitless chase 
and how some twelve months afterwards the happy Dorothy 
returned to her father with his grandchild in her arms, obtained 
forgiveness and finally became heir to Haddon Hall, wliich to 
this day remains in the possession of the present Duke of Rut- 
land. Haddon Hall is no longer inhabited, the present Duke 
of Rutland residing at Belvoir. 




SIR GILBERT GREENALL M. F. H. 



A Day With the Belvoir Foxhounds 139 



"Belvoir! neighbour to the sky 
That with light doth deck its brows — 
Belvoir! Art's masterpiece and nature's pride." 

Harleian Miscellany. (A. D. 1769) 

Belvoir Castle is situated on the top of a hill rising abruptly 
out of the great Belvoir Vale, the hill itself being a prominent 
landmark for twenty to thirty miles in every direction. The 
castle occupies all the level space on top of the hill, the ground 
falling quite precipitately away on all sides. The panoramic 
view from the castle is one of the most commanding, and for 
rural scenery is one of the most beautiful in England. There 
stretches in every direction a great carpet of green, divided by 
hedge fences, or rows of stumpy willows that mark the courses 
of creeks and brooklets. Everywhere scattered over tliis most 
fertile vale are great, spreading forest trees, clumps of planted 
game coverts, or "spinnies" of from one to three acres in 
extent. The hill on which the castle stands has been left a 
natural forest, through which winding carriage drives and 
vine-covered walks lead to the castle. High as these forest 
trees are, the noble castle caps the hill with towering turrets, 
parapets, and gables that rise far above them — a magnificent 
monument to the powerful family who in the old feudal days 
went to battle with their own followers and an armed troop 
of cavaliers who dwelt under the same roof. 

It is not the purpose of this chapter to devote more space 
to this most beautiful of all English castles, nor to dwell on the 
wonderful paintings, tapestry, relics, and souvenirs of the 
noble dukes who have lived there. 

"To carry the horn for the Belvoir," says Mr. Cuthbert 
Bradley in his charming book, "Hunting Reminiscences of 
Frank Gillard," "has always been considered the topmost rung 
in the ladder of fame, by all the professional talent." This book 



140 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

covers the experience of the clever huntsman and most noted 
hound breeder, Frank Gillard, who was huntsman to the Bel- 
voir for 26 years prior to the time when the present Duke of 
Rutland resigned his position of Master of his own hounds. 
This was in 1896, when His Grace had arrived at his seventy- 
fifth year. 

"He owed his old age and his stamina sound 
To the genuine love for the horse and the hound/' 

There is an old saying that "the hours spent in the chase 
are not reckoned against us in the numbering of our days." 
From the great number of men between sixty and ninety 
years old that are still riding to hounds, it would seem that 
this saying might more properly be called an axiom. Speaking 
of elderly men in the hunting field. Parson BuUin of the Bel- 
voir hunted up to his ninetieth year. He has been known to go 
out in the forenoon, return to his parish for a wedding or 
funeral, and be out and at it again the same afternoon. The 
great Atherton Smith carried the horn to his own pack up to 
his eightieth year. About this time he was invited to bring his 
hounds into the Quorn country. So great was his popularity 
that upwards of two thousand superbly mounted horsemen 
were present to meet him and join in the chase. 

John Peel, another veteran past master huntsman of 
national reputation, carried the horn up to his eightieth year. 
A favourite hunting song will keep his memory green to the 
end of time. 



^D'ye ken John Peel with his coat so grey. 
D'ye ken John Peel at the break of day, 
D'ye ken John Peel when he's far away. 
With his horse and his hounds in the morning f 




THE DUKE OF RUTLAND, M. F. H. 



A Bay With the Belvoir Foxhounds 141 

His son, John Peel, Jr., went his illustrious sire one better, 
for he rode to hounds nearly up to his ninetieth anniversary. 

There is scarcely a hunt club in Great Britain that does not 
boast of from one to half a dozen or more followers of the chase, 
who are past their four score mark. Let us hark back to 
the line. 

On his retirement, the Duke of Rutland called a meeting of 
sportsmen, tenants, farmers, and patrons of the hunt, and 
turned the pack and kennels over to a committee, with the 
object of continuing the sport in the vale, forever, as it had 
existed since fox hunting began. 

The committee selected Sir Gilbert Greenall, Bart., to fill 
the position of "Master" and the horn was entrusted to Ben 
Capell, who came from the Blankney, where he had been carry- 
ing the horn for ten seasons and who formerly was whipper-in 
to Tom Firr, the celebrated huntsman of the Quorn. Few 
huntsmen have ever had a more difficult position to fill. Only 
four huntsmen had preceded him during a century; each one 
had been a noted huntsman and hound breeder. Gillard, how- 
ever, accomplished more than all the others, for during his term 
as huntsman he practically carried hound breeding to perfec- 
tion. Of course the foundation that made this possible had been 
laid over two hundred years before by the tenth Earl of Man- 
ners, who afterwards became first Duke of Rutland. "The 
pack," says Bradley, "was established in 1686, and formerly 
was supposed to be kept to hunt deer." "The foxhound list 
and pedigree were first kept," says the same authority, "at the 
Kennels in 1750. Nevertheless to Frank Gillard is given the 
credit of elevating the pack to the distinction of being "the best 
in the world." For Ben Capell to undertake to fill such a posi- 
tion was indeed sometliing unusual, for the eyes of the fox 
hunting world were upon him, and predictions were every- 
where made that there could be but one Frank Gillard. In 
spite of all such prophecies, the pack has steadily gone on under 



142 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

the present management to even a higher rank than ever. For- 
tunate also is the pack for having as the JNIaster, Sir Gilbert 
Greenall, who takes a practical and personal interest in the 
breeding and mating of the hounds and has given as much care 
and attention to maintain the high standard of the pack as any 
of its former noble Masters. He is also one of the largest 
breeders of horses in England and his experience in the stable, 
no doubt, has been of great use to him in the kennels. 

Fortunate, indeed, has been this family pack to have had 
so few huntsmen, and all men who have strictly adhered to a hne 
of breeding that has given such satisfactory results. It must 
be remembered that at the same time, hundreds of Masters and 
huntsmen were proceeding on similar lines or lines of their 
own; all in the keenest and most sportsmanlike rivalry to 
obtain tliis improvement; all with an ideal foxhound in their 
mind's eye, to wliich standard of excellence they were striving 
to elevate their packs. To "win out" in a contest of this 
measure is a distinction that may well be looked upon with 
pride by any fox hunting man or hound fancier in the world. 

Two hundred years is a long time to work and strive and 
wait, and still there is room for improvement, for out of over 
100 puppies sent yearly to "walk" from the Belvoir Kennels, 
not more than one in three is found perfect enough to meet 
the required standard, as they are judged on the flags. Of this 
select number, another "draft" is made of hounds that for 
some fault or other, or because they do not work in harmony 
with the pack, are also weeded out, so that for a year's crop of 
puppies fifteen or twenty couple is the most that can possibly 
hope to become working members of that honoured band. Still, 
indifferent as these drafted hounds may be, they are all be- 
spoken for, five or six years in advance. 

During the year, the kennels are visited by Masters and 
huntsmen from all over Great Britain, who make a yearly 
pilgrimage hither to see the new entry come in, discuss hound 




A CRUSH TO GET THROUGH 




BEN CAPELL, HUNTSMAN 



A Day With the Belvoir Foxhounds 143 

breeding with the genial huntsman and obtain liis advice on 
subjects of general interest. 

In spite of the great rivalry that has always existed in 
England in hound breeding, it has ever been the sportsman- 
like practice of the Dukes of Rutland to permit all other Mas- 
ters of hounds to obtain the blood. In so doing, the Belvoir has 
refrained from entering in competition at Peterboro', where 
as a rule Belvoir blood from other kennels has carried off the 
prizes. Few people outside of huntsmen and Masters appre- 
ciate what it means to breed a perfect foxhound. The require- 
ments are so high and so numerous that an attempt to com- 
bine them in a single animal is a task so great as to make the 
breeding of all other domestic animals mere child's play in 
comparison. In "Cross Country with Horse and Hound," 
the writer said in substance: "The English foxhound as he 
stands to-day, is the highest example of the art and science of 
breeding for improvement of any domestic animal — the horse 
not excepted." Tliis is indeed a sweeping statement, and is 
doubtless looked upon by some as extravagant. Most pure 
bred domestic animals are bred with the idea of perfecting 
them in one particular, — the horse either for speed or draught, 
the cow for milk or beef, the sheep for wool or mutton. So 
difficult is it to obtain in these animals perfection in more than 
one quality, that breeders have, as a rule, given it up as unsatis- 
factory, and confine their energies to the development of a 
single characteristic, besides colour markings, etc. that distin- 
guish the particular breed. 

The English foxhound, as he is bred to-day in England, 
must possess in addition to colour and markings that distinguish 
the family, more high class qualifications than any other domes- 
tic animal. His origin was a cross between the bloodhound and 
the greyhound; one of his parents hunted by sight only, the 
other by nose; one ran mute, the other gave tongue — the very 
swiftest and the very slowest. To harmonise these conflict- 



144 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

ing characteristics in a single animal, to modify this, perpetuate 
that, to exterminate one thing and ingraft another, was the 
problem. Out of this oil and water mixture to produce a per- 
fect hound was a task of greater magnitude than has ever been 
successfully carried out with any other line of cross breeding. 
The persistent, methodical, painstaking English Masters and 
their huntsmen have been working at this for over 200 years. 
The best results yet to be achieved, as we have already shown, 
are found at the Belvoir kennels. 

An up-to-date Efnglish foxhound must possess the 
following qualifications to be good enough to satisfy the 
breeder. 

First, as judged on the flags when he arrives at the kennels 
from his "walk," he must not be too tall nor too short. The 
standard of Belvoir is 23 inches for dog hounds and 22 for 
females. Then comes a long list of defects in general confor- 
mation, as to feet and legs, back and loin, neck and throat. 
Passing muster in these, he must prove in the field to be neither 
too fast nor too slow ; too free of giving tongue, nor too mute ; 
neither a skirter nor a line hunter. His voice must be neither 
too high nor too low, but harmonise with the pack. He must 
not tell a lie nor run riot. He must have great staying quali- 
ties, for it has been the custom since the daj^s of the first Duke, 
"when the Belvoir goes out for a day's hunting, to keep on 
drawing coverts," says Bradley, "until dark, no matter how 
far hounds are from the kennels." A hound with a weakness is 
sure to be winded out. Therefore the stamina and endurance 
of the Belvoir hound are easily accounted for (the Belvoir hunt 
five days a week) . He must possess fling and drive in covert. 
He must be a hunting dog, relying on his own endeavours to 
follow the line of the hunted fox, as if hunting alone. His 
speed must be as great as his endurance. His nose and drive 
must be so well-balanced that he will race to the line with a good 
head, and not tie himself to it with painstaking plodding. If 



A Day With the Belvoir Foxhounds 145 

he qualifies in all these particulars, then he must satisfy the ken- 
nel huntsman as to his character, that is to say, he must be — 

Neither quarrelsome nor timid. 
Neither slovenly nor too fastidious. 
Neither a glutton nor a poor feeder. 
Neither sulky nor quick-tempered. 
Neither too meek nor disobedient. 



These are the qualifications of an up-to-date English fox- 
hound. Whoever has attempted to breed or school a couple of 
bird dogs, even from the same litter, and has succeeded in get- 
ting them to work properly together, can imagine what it 
means, perhaps, to produce a pack (160 hounds) that are as 
hke as so many peas in a pod, and that hunt together, and are 
governed as one hound. Such in short is the status of the Bel- 
voir hounds. 

Good as they are for their own particular neighbourhood 
and country, these most perfect hounds could not be recom- 
mended for the class of fox hunting they would meet with in 
America. In their own country the Belvoir hounds, as a rule, 
start, run into and kill a fox for every day's hunting in the 
season. The different climatic conditions existing in America, 
the difference also in the foxes and coverts, as explained in a 
previous chapter, account for their failure in America. 

Capell is putting on his kennel coat, for he is impatient to 
take us to see this year's entry as well as a few old favourite 
dogs of his own breeding, that are doing so much in maintain- 
ing and elevating the Belvoir standard. 

Belvoir Dexter, now in his tenth season, and therefore bred 
by Gillard and entered in his last season, comes crowding his 
way through a cluster of his sons and grandsons standing at 
the kennel door. Not every good hound has the ability to trans- 
mit his good qualities. This is not the case with Belvoir Dex- 



146 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

ter, a great-grandson of Gambler, a celebrated hound, whom 
Gillard considered the most perfect hound that he had ever 
bred. Dexter's sons are numerous and his daughters are excel- 
lent in every way in the field and on the flags. 

"Gambler came so near the ideal, in every respect," says 
Cuthbert Bradley, "that his skeleton has been set up as a model 
of symmetry and proportion, to illustrate a perfect hound." 
Besides the painting and drawings of this wonderful hound, 
the good he did will keep his memory green for a hundred 
years to come. The illustration herewith of Belvoir Dexter is 
from a painting by Mr. Cuthbert Bradley, which that artist 
did for "Land and Water," by whose kind permission it is here 
reproduced. 

"Next to an old Greek statue," adds Bradley, quoting 
from Canon Kingsley's description of a modern foxhound, 
"there are few such combinations of strength as in a fine fox- 
hound. Majesty is the only word. It is a joy to see such 
perfection alive." 

Let us return to Belvoir Dexter, who has probably pro- 
duced more high class sons and daughters and granddaughters 
than any hound that ever lived. It has been the policy of the 
Belvoir hunt for the last hundred years seldom to go outside 
of their own kennels for new blood. This accounts for the 
strong family likeness in the Belvoir hounds, and their uni- 
formity as to colour and markings. The Belvoir tan is recog- 
nised throughout Great Britain, and few kennels are without 
it. A perfect system of books, with extended tabulated pedi- 
gree of every hound in the pack since 1859, is kept by Mr. W. 
Bainbridge, private secretary and agent to Sir Gilbert 
Greenall. 

The writer does not pretend to be an expert judge of 
hounds, or attempt to say where the Enghsh breeders are 
wrong. His own favourite hound at Belvoir is Vagabond, 
1899. 




BELVOIR CASTLE 




BELVOIR DEXTER 



A Day With the Belvoir Foxhounds 147 

It seems to the writer that there is danger in the present 
rage for carrying in-turning toes, short lower joints and heavy 
upright legs, too far, both for utility and looks. On the other 
hand American hound breeding, as generally carried on in the 
States, is so far behind the English standard that it seems 
almost hopeless to discuss it. Still there is a leaven working 
there that may in time accomplish much. 



''But Councilman opens, Hark! Councilman, Hark! 
And Finder and Fisherman join him. Hark! Hark! 
And then with a chorus that brings you delight 
Ten couple chime in and put everything right." 

Poems in Pink. 

XIII 

TWO DAYS WITH THE QUORN (FIRST DAY) 

THE FAMOUS GRASS COUNTRIES HUNTING CENTRES — RAILWAY 

TRAVEL — THE BAY MARE INN HIRING A HUNTER A 

BLANK DAY. 

T EICESTER is one of the most popular resorts for hunt- 
^-^ ing men in England. Several of the most fashionable 
packs of hounds in England are within a radius of fifteen or 
twenty miles of Leicester. A sportsman locating there can 
easily hunt six days in the week without going a great distance 
to the meets. The favourite resorts for gentlemen who come 
to Leicester during the hunting season are not the modern 
hotels but the old fashioned inns like the "Black Bull," "The 
King's Head," "The Bay Mare Inn," etc. These inns have 
commodious stables and boxes for hunters and are invariably 
managed by the "Missis," whose husband acts as a handy man 
about the place. 

There is an air of comfort about these well-worn places that 
fits one better than the more modern hotels, which are, as we 
have already said, usually most formal and uninviting. A day 
or a week in one of these old inns is one of the charms of Merry 
England. 



Two Days With the Quorn {First Day) 149 

I arrived in Leicester one rainy evening. The old town 
looked forlorn enough. I said "evening"; it was only about 
half-past three, but the street lamps were already lighted. 

Everyone looked pinched and cold and cross and out of 
sorts, and no wonder. It is bad enough for a sportsman, who 
gives liimself up to hunting five or six days a week, to "hang 
about" for a daj-- or two, with a string of five to fifteen hunters 
kicking their boxes to pieces. But this sort of thing had been 
going on during two weeks of frost that had prevented hounds 
going out, and to cap the climax of the sportsman's misery, a 
two days' rain had kept the riders and most of the horses in- 
doors. 

If there is any one thing worse than an English fog, with 
the thermometer at about freezing, to unfit a person for becom- 
ing an angel, it is to ride a few hours in an English railway car- 
riage on a cold, rainy winter's day, such as I experienced get- 
ting from London to Leicester on this occasion. The "X-Ray" 
has a wonderful penetrating power, but the London fog stops 
not at bones, it goes straight to the marrow. 

The railway carriages are relics of a prehistoric age. They 
are sometimes provided with a pan of hot water for a foot 
warmer just large enough to accommodate two ordinary sized 
pairs of feet. If there is a woman in the compartment, the 
hot water pan goes to her, and when she gets her feet on it 
and her dress covers her feet, the other nine passengers can keep 
their feet warm by stamping them, or thinking about a hot 
mustard bath. 

A railway compartment, which runs crosswise of the car 
and has a door in each end, holds ten passengers, five facing 
forward and five backward. When seated in the compartment 
there is only about a foot to spare (no pun is intended) between 
the knees of the two rows of passengers. (A car, or carriage, 
has three or four of these compartments.) The train stops 
at a station ; a passenger at one end of the compartment wishes 



150 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

to get off and the platform happens to be next to the door on 
the opposite side of the car. He gets up, collects his numerous 
bundles and grips (most traveUing in England is done with 
hand luggage), and with his hands and arms full he starts for 
the door. Everyone turns his or her feet sideways to enable 
him to pass; he bumps everyone's knees, knocks their shins 
and can hardly manage without losing his balance, and comes 
dangerously near falling into the lap of a passenger first on 
one side and then on the other. The passengers now come to 
the rescue and take his baggage while he goes edging and 
squeezing his way along to the discomfort of everyone in the 
compartment. Finally he reaches the door, and in order to 
get out someone must relieve him of the rest of his baggage, for 
to unfasten the door he must let down the window, stick his 
head and half of his body out of the car, reach down on the 
outside and unfasten the door. Then he steps out, and the 
passengers, who have been holding liis luggage meanwhile, 
pass it along to him or to a porter, and away goes the passenger 
leaving the car-door and window wide open. Now someone 
must get up and close this door and raise the window by aid 
of a dangling strap, or leave it open until the train starts. I 
have never seen a passenger leaving a car in England close the 
door behind him. 

Just before the train starts the door opens and a big red- 
faced Englishman looks in. Only one seat vacant. He leaves 
the door open and looks into other compartments to find one 
with more room. Finally he comes back and walks in, puffing 
and blowing, wades between two rows of knees and sits down in 
the seat vacated by the passenger that got off. He had a drink 
of Scotch before he started from home, walked to the station, 
had another Scotch with a friend while waiting for the train. Of 
course he left the door open when he came in and the passen- 
gers take his luggage until he can get into his place and relieve 
them of it. Now he sits down. The guard slams the door 




PUPPIES 




THE QUORN PACK 



Two Days With the Quorn {First Day) 151 

like the discharge of a shot gun. The train starts. The new 
man feels heated and lets down the window. The other nine 
passengers, chilled to the marrow, sit in the draught while the 
man cools his Scotch. 

Walking to the station, his boots collected a load of mud, 
but by the time he reached his corner he had them fairly well 
cleaned. He left the mud on the gentlemen's trousers and the 
ladies' dresses as he passed to his seat. This is railway travel 
in England. This may seem to many of my readers an exag- 
geration. I assure them that it is not. 

This is my apology for feeling cross at the end of the 
journey that landed me in Leicester. The trouble is that when 
you get chilled through, there is not a stove or furnace in all 
England (that I ever saw) where you can get warm. Grin 
and bear it, or rather "take Scotch-and-put-up-with-it," is the 
only resource. 

When I arrived at the Bay Mare Inn the landlady called 
a chambermaid to show me my room (chambermaids in 
England do the duties of the bell boys as well) and the 
"boots" to take up my luggage. The chambermaid wears 
a white cap and the "boots" an apron of green baize cloth as 
a badge of their respective duties. There are no bootblacks 
in England as in the States. You put your shoes in the hall 
at night and the "boots" cleans them. 

My room is as damp and chilly as a sepulchre. The fog 
has penetrated my clothing until I feel like a corpse. I am 
half desperate, at least reckless. 

"Well!" I said to the chambermaid who stood in the door- 
way wringing and chafing her hands with the cold, her nose as 
red as her hands, her features pinched, "What's the matter?" 

"Please, sir." 

"What's the matter? Why do you stand there wringing 
your hands?" 

"Oh, I's awful cold, sir." 



152 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

"Cold! Why, that's nothing. I haven't been warm for two 
weeks. Think of ginger. You should not let a little thing like 
the cold trouble you. Bring me a pitcher of ice water." 

"Ice water, sir? You mean hot water, don't you, sir?" 

"Well, bring something and be smart about it." 

Dear me, the room was so cold and damp it nearly put the 
candle out. 

"Anything else, sir?" said the chambermaid standing in the 
doorway and still rubbing her hands. "Would you like a hot 
water bottle to put in your bed, sir?" 

"Yes, in the name of the Society for the Prevention of 
Cruelty to Animals, yes, put in a dozen." 

"A dozen, sir?" 

"Yes, or you will never hear a copper jingle in my pocket." 

"I don't think there are a dozen bottles in the house, sir." 

Tliis conversation goes on while I wash my face and hands. 

"Well, then put in eleven." 

No doubt the poor girl thinks I am crazy. She shakes her 
head and goes on chafing her hands. 

"How many can you supply?" 

"There are only two in the house, sir. Would you like a 
fire in the grate, sir?" 

I had already had experience with grate fires in other hotels. 
They burn only soft coal. They open the flue while they build 
the fire: it burns for about an hour, then all the rest of the 
night the fog and damp comes down the chimney, until the 
walls of your room are wet. The grate in this room would hold 
-about as much coal as a No. 7, possibly a No. 7 1-8, derby hat. 

"No, thank you. I prefer the cool invigorating air of the 
room, but if you don't get that bed warmed by 9 o'clock, you 
will surely turn grey." 

"I'll do the best I can, sir." 

As I go down stairs. Madam, who has had an ear to my 
coming, meets me with a motherly smile. "What would you 



Two Days With the Quorn {First Day) 153 

like, sir? A cup of tea in the smoking room, or would you 
prefer sometliing to eat ? Dinner will not be served until half- 
past six." 

"I'll take a cup of tea, please." 

"Thank you. Will you have it served in the smoking room 
or in the dining room?" 

"Oh, the smoking room." 

"Smoking room, right, sir," and with a matronly air she 
says: "You know the way, don't you, sir? This way. Your 
tea will be there in a minute." 

In the barroom were some half dozen grooms and stable- 
men sipping their bitter and talking horse, while one of the 
number was leaning on the bar laughing with the barmaid 
and trying to say sometliing to make her blush. "I wouldn't 
go to master with a feed bill," one groom was saying to 
another, "until the frost lifts, for — for — well, I'd sooner lose 
three weeks' wages, so I would." And he brought his fist 
down on the table with a bang to prove that he meant it. 

A dozen or fifteen gentlemen were seated about the smok- 
ing room. All were looking serious and very matter of fact, 
each making the others more miserable, no doubt, by talking 
about the weather and the capital D frost. It was a sort of 
an "inferno" place: it must have been, for it was warmer than 
could be accounted for by the little grate fire. As I entered 
the room, most of the gentlemen looked up from their books 
and papers and glasses, and as I walked to the fireplace, I 
said to a group of gentlemen who made way for me, "Good 
evening, gentlemen." No one answered: and then, not realis- 
ing the state of their minds about the weather, I said, "A cold, 
disagreeable day, gentlemen." No reply and I felt more chilly 
than ever. 

This was my first visit to England and I did not know 
Enghshmen then or how to get at them. When an American 
first goes to England he compares them to a turtle that fives 



154 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

entirely within its shell, except its head, and it draws that in if 
a stranger looks at it. You can generally ride hundreds of 
miles alone with an Englishman in a compartment and he will 
never speak to you. If you have a letter of introduction or they 
know who you are and where you come from, it is all right. I 
once found myself in Kent, and thinking that I would like to 

visit Sir Thomas G 's hackneys, I hired a livery and drove 

four miles to liis place. I rang the bell and told the servant 
what I wanted. I was directed to go to the bailiff (farm man- 
ager). I said, "I came to see Sir G 's horses." 

"Did you have an appointment?" asked the bailiff. 

"No," I said: "I was in the neighbourhood and am inter- 
ested in hackneys, etc. Can I see them?" 

"Well, yes, but you had better have an appointment." 

"To whom shall I apply?" 

"Oh, simply write to Sir Thomas and you will soon receive 
a reply." 

I could scarcely see the necessity of this, as I knew Sir 
Thomas was at home. I returned to London without accom- 
plishing my purpose. A friend to whom I told my experience 
said, "Yes, in this country they never like to have anyone come 
in on them without notice. You write Sir Thomas a letter 
telling him who you are, where you came from and what you 
want to see." At first I said "I came to tliis country to buy 
some hackneys, and Sir Thomas can go where the woodbine 
twineth." Finally, to please my English friend and to see how 
it would turn out I wrote to Sir Thomas, and by return post 
received a letter from his secretary saying that Sir Thomas 
would be pleased to see me at the Hall any day that suited my 
convenience. If I would let him know the day and train, he 
would send to the station for me. I went and was met at the 
train by a coachman in livery. Sir Thomas showed me all 
about the stables and took me through the wonderful old manor 
house, gave me a nice lunch and returned me to the train. 



Two Days With the Quorn {First Day) 155 

That's English. It's very nice when you know how to go 
about it. 

The reception in the smoking room of the Bay Mare Inn 
was quite as chilly as anything I had previously experienced, 
and I made up my mind never again to attempt to be civil or 
to speak to an Englishman unless I was spoken to. 

The landlady followed the maid in with my pot of tea. She 
poured it for me herself. 

"Is that to your liking, sir?" 

"Yes, thank you." 

All the time she was waiting on me she was talking to this 
and that gentleman: for one she had mended a pair of gloves, 
for another she had washed out some hunting scarves. She 
seemed to be the mother of the whole lot of them : a nice family, 
only I thought that she might have taught them to be a little 
more civil to strangers. I drank my tea in silence and retired 
into a shell of my own, which by the time we went out to dinner 
I could feel growing to quite a thickness. It was a most 
satisfying dinner : great slices of roast beef to satisfy the wants 
of a wood chopper, cold meats, a stuffed hog's head, etc. I ate 
my dinner in silence: but, dear me, by the time coffee was 
served in the smoking room I thawed out in spite of myself, 
and the first thing I knew I was on speaking terms with one 
of the most agreeable gentlemen it has ever been my good for- 
tune to meet. Col. Richardson, to whom I was afterwards in- 
debted for one of the grandest day's sport I ever enjoyed with 
hounds, an account of which I will attempt to give in my second 
day's experience with the Quorn. We talked horse, hunting 
and hounds, forwards, sideways and backwards until we were 
the only persons in the smoking room. The Colonel had rid- 
den to hounds in America and knew several gentlemen of my 
acquaintance. 

"But," said the Colonel, "I do not fancy those Long Island 
fences. I own to flunking timber." 



156 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

The Colonel advised me where to go to secure a mount. 
The stable I applied to early the next morning was that of a 
"Jobmaster." Yes, he could mount me that day for the Quorn, 
as it was a bye day: three guineas (over 15 dollars) ; and at ten 
o'clock I went to get my mount, which, by the charge, I ex- 
pected would be something first-class. Imagine my surprise 
when the groom led out an old stiffened hunter that looked 
hardly up to my weight. 

"Where is the owner?" I inquired. "Gone to the meet, sir. 
Master said I was to show you the way, sir." "But," I said, 
"that poor old cripple is not fit to carry me." "Be 
all right, sir, soon as 'e's limbered hup a bit." I had my doubts. 
He had been fired and blistered and nerved. However, I 
hacked that old hunter seven long miles to the meet. I made up 
my mind that I would ride out to see the start and ride back 
to Leicester. 

At the meet I saw the dealer and complained about my 
mount. The two grooms who accompanied me were beauti- 
fully mounted and so was the owner. I could not understand it. 
"Go all right," said the jobmaster, "directly the hounds throw 
off." I was invited into the house for a taste and was here 
introduced to the Master, the Earl of Lonsdale. It seemed as 
if the great dining hall was full of dukes and lords. Lord 
Lonsdale impressed me as a most affable gentleman, easily 
approached. I noticed that he spoke to farmers and lords in 
the same gentlemanly manner. 

As we rode along to covert I saw a fine looking gentleman. 
Lord So and So, in a pink hunting coat and brass buttons, white 
silk breeches, high silk hat and top boots, begging a light of 
some country chap on a long-tailed, long-haired farm horse. In 
the hunting field in England everyone seems to meet on a level. 
An English gentleman holds his standing so securely that he 
can speak with any one of his acquaintance without ever feeling 
that he has lowered himself in doing so. Altogether an 




THE EARL OF LONSDALE, M. F. H. 



Two Days With the Quorn {First Day) 157 

English gentleman is the most gentlemanly gentleman in the 
world (except to strangers). 

We jog on to covert. There is not a breath of air stirring. 
Therefore, in getting into position for the start, one side of the 
covert seemed as favourable as the other. Hounds were cast 
in on the northwest corner of an oblong piece of wood — about 
four acres. Some of the riders went along the north side and 
some turned down the west end. I chose the latter, as foxes 
usually lie in a covert where the sun can strike them. My idea 
was that if there was a fox in the covert, he would probably 
be found on the sunny side and break south. Unfortunately, 
this well-laid plan worked to my disadvantage. Hounds went 
straight along the north fence and ran out at the northeast 
corner of the covert, so that by the time my old wreck arrived 
on the south side of the covert the hounds were fully a mile 
away. I had plenty of company, for fully half the hunt — fifty 
or sixty — came my way. 

To make matters worse, we had to ride slowly through a bog 
and the hounds went away with such a burning scent that they 
never gave tongue to the line, at least no one on our side heard 
a whimper. When the riders on my side took in the situation 
they raced away at such a fearful pace that my poor old scow 
was fairly left standing. He was a clever old chap at fences 
and ditches, but it was no use. I pulled him up in the third 
field and returned to Leicester. I left him with the stable man 
with ten shillings and my card and address instead of the three 
guineas. I came to the conclusion that three guineas was the 
price of the horse. The groom said that I was mistaken. How- 
ever, three guineas was more than I would have cared to pay 
for him, and we let the matter drop. That evening I was 
telhng the Colonel my experience. "Oh, what a shame!" he 
cried. "I'll never send another person to his stables. Did you 
tell him I sent you?" "No," I replied. (That, probably, was 
my mistake, not properly introduced, you see.) "I don't un- 



158 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

derstand it," continued the Colonel, much more worked up 
about it than I was. "I saw the owner and two of his grooms 
out on good ones," I remarked. "He must have had a customer 
for two or three and was having them ridden to sell. I wish 
I had gone down to the stable with you. I'll tell you what," 
added the Colonel, "you stay over to-morrow and I will give 
you a mount." I remonstrated. "I've twelve hunters in the 
stables, one sort and another," replied the Colonel, taking no 
heed to my remarks. "Tliey are all kicking their boxes to 
pieces for want of work, and if you will stay you can have a 
mount and welcome." I said that it was too much. But the 
Colonel insisted. "I don't want you to go back to New York 
until you have had a day with the Quorn. I should really 
feel badly to think of it. What do you ride at?" he asked. 
"I weigh 186 pounds." "Let me see, fourteen pounds to 
the stone, that means a good horse." "Yes," I said, "and I 

really " "That's all right," broke in the Colonel. "I ride 

nearly that weight myself. I was thinking what horse to give 
you." He closed his eyes and went over the list on his fingers 
until he came to, "Ah! yes, that's it, Richard — Richard the 
Bay: he is an Irish horse and as good as they make them. All 
you have to do is to sit still, give him his head at the jumps and 
he will pull you through any country where a horse can go." 
I stayed, and the day I had on "Richard the Bay" I shall 
remember as long as I live. 



'Td a lead of them all when we came to the brook, 
A big one, a bumper and up to your chin. 
As he threw it behind Mm I turned for a look. 
There were eight of us at it and seven got in. 
Then he shook his lean head while he heard them go flop. 
This Clipper that stands in the stall at the top." 

Old Hunting Song. 

XIV 

TWO DAYS WITH THE QUORN (SECOND DAY) 

RICHARD THE BAY — THE MEET — THE CHASE — THE BROOK 

COLONEL RICHARDSON. 

T Jl ^ELL, groom," said I, on entering the stable early the 
^ ^ next morning, "How is Richard the Bay? He must 
be very fit after a rest of two weeks." 

" 'E's as fit as can be, sir," answered the groom, with a dab 
at his cap. "Are you the gentleman as master said is going to 
ride him to-day, sir?" 

"Yes," I replied, "I came in to have a look at him." 

"Just so, sir, just so. 'E's in this 'ere box, sir. Master 
thinks a lot of this 'ere 'orse. 'E do for a fact, sir." 

Then the groom went on, thinking I might be a purchaser, 
with the usual stable lingo, which would probably have been 
the same had it been any other of the Colonel's twelve horses 
that I wanted to see. 

We entered the box, and as the groom stripped off the 
blankets, Richard let both heels fly at them as much as to say 
"good riddance to you." 



160 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

"Fit! I should say he is!" I remarked. "He is simply 
spoiHng for a run." 

" 'E's allers that way, sir, when 'e's been in for a few days. 
I daresay, sir, you will find 'im a bit above hisself to-day, sir, 
but he means nothing by that, sir. A quieter, better-mannered 
'orse never looked through a bridle, sir." 

To prove his words, the groom stroked Richard's hind legs 
and pulled him about, adding, "There is not a bit of vice in- 
tended, sir. You can tell that by the looks on him, can't you, 
sirf 

I liked Richard immensely. I liked him all the better for 
kicking off his blankets. I once owned a hunter that did the 
very same trick, when, as the groom expressed it, " 'E was feel- 
ing a little above hisself." 

What a delightful morning it was ! The sun shone and the 
wind was just right to insure a good scenting day. What a 
change had come over the spirits of every one. The morning 
train from London and the north brought back two score or 
more riders who had gone away during the frost, while a dozen 
horse cars, which were attached to the express trains, brought 
in twice as many hunters. 

Men in scarlet were seen everywhere about the Bay Mare 
Inn. 

Our landlady had her hands full looking after all the little 
wants of her guests. 

"Sportsmen are such careless fellows," she informed me, and 
added, in a confidential tone, "I would as soon fit out as many 
girls for a party." 

A bell rings vigorously. 

"Yes, sir, in just a moment. That's Lord ringing 

for his boots. He forgot to put them out to be cleaned. I do 
hope," she continued, "you will have a good run and come 
home as hungry as wolves." 

Here she broke off to pull on a glove for a gentleman 



Two Days With the Quorn (Second Day) 161 

who had a fall yesterday and must ride with one hand to-day. 

Outside everything was in commotion. Hunters in charge 
of grooms and stable boys were always in sight and the town 
people were collecting to see us off. 

Finally the time comes for us to mount for a three-mile 
ride to the meet. My heart was in a bit of a flutter, as the 
ladies say, when I heard the groom leading Richard the Bay 
from his stall. I could tell by the sound of his stately tread 
that he had the walk and carriage of a gentleman. The groom 
opened the stable door, Richard stopped, cocked his head to 
one side like an old tar surveying the weather ; his great nostrils 
dilated and his sides swelled as he took in a deep breath of the 
sharp, invigorating air. After a pause the groom pulled a Httle 
at the bridle. 

"Come along, hold man, this is your day for 'unting." 

But Richard stood there gazing about as if he were some 
bloated landlord about to bargain for the place. I had to smile 
to see the knowing rascal entirely oblivious of the groom pulling 
(very gently, however) at liis bridle. 

"Don't disturb him, groom, he'll come when he has finished 
his observations." 

Finally Richard came to himself and began playing with 
the bits. Again his nostrils dilated. The groom reached up 
his hand to steady him out. Richard pushed away his hands 
with a disgusted expression, as if to say, "I'm quite able to 
take care of myself." And then, spurning all assistance, he 
stepped out into the wet yard like a lady in opera gown and 
slippers. 

The groom walked him around the yard once or twice for 
my inspection. Richard was a big, upstanding Irishman; — a 
trifle ragged at the hips, as most Irish hunters are. His quar- 
ters, however, were most powerful, the muscles running well 
down to his hocks. He carried a grand middle piece, with 
shoulders to suit the most exacting. His grandest characteris- 



162 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

tic, however, was his great brown eyes, soft and mild, with the 
greatest width between them, making him one of the most intel- 
hgent-looking horses I had ever seen. His long straight neck 
was beautifully set on both head and shoulders, and he carried 
his head just right to make him a model cross-country horse, 
while under him he carried four clean legs of unusual strength 
and substance, with very large knee and hock joints. Alto- 
gether, he was quite an ideal pattern of a weight-carrying 
hunter. The groom stood directly in front of Richard, with a 
hand to each side of his face, holding him by the bits. The 
stable boy was standing on the off side, the stirrup leather in 
one hand and the iron in the other. I thought Richard was 
about 15.3 hands, but when I came up near enough to mount I 
saw that he was closer to 16.1. 

I gathered up the reins, and the instant my foot was in the 
stirrup and my weight off the ground I felt Richard gathering 
himself, and I knew what was coming. Dropping quickly into 
the saddle I nodded to the groom. 

"Look sharp, sir," he cried, as he sprang to one side. At 
this Richard gave one exultant bound and then another, and 
came down stiff legged ; then, up again like a rabbit, frightened 
from a brush pile. Then, with his heels high in the air as a part- 
ing to groom and stable, he shot out of the yard on to the green 
in front of the Bay Mare Inn. 

I thought best to let Richard have a bit of a fling just to 
lake a few of the superfluous kinks out of his legs and back. 
He was simply too happy to contain himself, and when he saw 
the other hunters gathering in front of the hotel his bottled-up 
exuberance had to find vent in sundry quirks and artful ges- 
tures of the head. He pretended to shy at a curbstone from 
which he had been mounted many a time; a bit of paper next 
came to his attention, and I thought by the feeling under me 
that Richard must have swallowed a spring bed. I hardly 
knew what to do, as I was afraid the owner, who was standing 




A MEET AT KIRBY GATE 




THE FIELD MOVING OFF 



Two Days With the Quorn {Second Day) 163 

on the hotel steps, might think I was unable to manage 
Richard or, worse yet, that I was trying to show off. On the 
other hand, I did not like to take Richard sharply by the head 
and saw him down, and possibly get into a fight with him 
that might put him in bad humour for the day. I have seen 
many a spirited mount made sulky and unhappy, spoiling 
the day's sport for himself and his rider, because the latter was 
too harsh and rank with him at the start. Hunting is a part- 
nership game in which the rider should do his utmost to be 
perfectly agreeable to his horse. 

Regardless, therefore, of what anyone might say or tliink, 
Richard had his fling and we settled down in a few minutes 
with a perfect understanding and on the best of terms with each 
other. 

At least two hundred mounts rode out that day to pay their 
respects to one little fox. Dukes and farmers, lords and traders, 
squires and tenants, the lady from the hall and the country girl 
from the cottage, all assembled, united in one common bond 
stronger than freemasonry and as lasting as the church. The 
Master, the Earl of Lonsdale, bowing graciously alike to the 
farmer and the peer, rides up with twenty odd couples of most 
beautiful hounds. ( This pack, or at least this hunt, is now over 
two hundred years old. ) Of course, the hunt servants, like his 
Lordship, are faultlessly dressed. Gentlemen, who have driven 
to the meet, now remove their overcoats and the white aprons 
they have worn over their whitened riding breeches to preserve 
them spotless to the hour of mounting, while the whole field is 
moving about hke a great kaleidoscopic picture. The sporting 
parson in his priestly garb goes wandering about among his 
flock like the one black sheep of the fold. I had heard a good 
deal about the sporting parsons in England, but this was the 
first time I had seen one hunting. It did look rather strange, 
but he seemed to be as much loved and as highly respected by all 
classes as the great Earl of Rosebery, at that time Prime Min- 



164 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

ister of England, with whom he was at the moment exchanging 
a pleasant greeting. The parson was a man who had lived 
quite half a century. His hair was mottled grey ; but he was a 
hard one to follow, as many of us could testify before the 
day was done. 

"Toot! Toot!" say the horns, and, headed by the Master 
and hounds, the great cavalcade moves on to covert. 

Hounds are thrown into a small "spinny" of possibly three 
acres, while one of the whippers-in has been sent on to a position 
where he can view the fox away when he leaves the covert. 
The riders look well to their saddle girths ; cigars and cigarettes 
are thrown away, hats are set a degree tighter, reins are 
adjusted, and with another look at throat latch and curb chain 
we are ready for the chase. We hear the huntsman encourag- 
ing the hounds to draw. 

"Edawick! Edawick! Edawick!" 

We move to the left of the covert, as there is a large open 
field to the right, and the fox is not likely to go away in full 
view. No one knows better than the writer what it means to 
get a bad start. Some ambitious riders crowd on. We hear 
the whimpering of a hound in covert. Even the languid Lon- 
don chappie pulls down his hat and rides up to the front with 
a rush. 

"Hold hard, gentlemen," shouts the Master. "Pray give 
the fox a chance." 

Some rider on a black horse moves up a few steps. 

"Hold hard there, black horse! Look! gentlemen, look 
where you are going, unless you want to head the fox back 
to covert !" 

Just then from the opposite side of the covert, we hear 
the welcome shout of the whipper-in : 

"Tally-o-away! Tally-o-away! Away! Away! Gone 
away!" 

Again the Master calls out: 



Two Days With the Quorn {Second Day) 165 

"Now, please, gentlemen, hold hard. Give the hounds a 
chance. They are not running yet." 

Our mounts are now as restless as so many race-horses at 
the starting post. They throw their heads, bite at their bits, 
paw the ground, break away and let their heels fly from sheer 
impatience to be off. 

"Steady there, Richard; easy, easy, old man. It's coming 
soon. Easy now." 

"But look, master, I can't stand this much longer," said 
Richard. 

"Nor I either, old boy, but I must hold hard, you know." 

Have the hounds gone to sleep, I wonder? Oh, those 
trying minutes between a "Tally-o-away! Gone away," and 
the find. There comes a whimper as some hound half owns to 
the line. 

"Hark to Mistress! Hark to Mistress!" shouts the hunts- 
man. "Hark to Mistress, my beauties." 

The hounds rush to Mistress, but they can't quite make it 
out until Trumpeter hits off the line with a joyous shout. 
Then, with a cheer from the huntsman that fills one's heart with 
joy, the pack rush to the line with a burst of melody, and go 
streaming away like race-horses from the post and the chase 
is on. 

Away we went. Our first fence was a neatly trimmed 
hedge, about three and one-half feet high. I took Richard "by 
the head" to steady him to it the same as at timber. Of all 
things, a puller and a rusher at his fences is something I can- 
not abide. Richard would have no meddling with his head and 
he left the hedge behind him in his stride. 

What's this ? An overgrown hedge with a ditch on the take- 
off side? I saw it was a neck-or-nothing ride but I made up my 
mind to let Richard manage it. He knew more about this 
style of jumping than I did. On we went, at a fearful pace. 
Some were making for a gate to the right. Others were riding 



166 The Hunting Field With Hors^ and Hound 

their own line and going straight. I gave Richard a light pull 
to the right, but he had no eye for the gate. Already Ms 
mind was made up to take the fence, wliich I afterwards 
learned was called a bull-finch ( an overgrown hedge on a bank 
with a ditch on either side) . I thought of the Colonel's words, 
"All you have to have to do is to sit still and Richard will take 
you through any place where a horse can go." Still, I felt as 
if I must steady him, for he was going at such an awful pace. 
Others were going the same pace and taking the fence. Force 
of habit is strong. I wanted to take Richard by the head as 
if he were going for a stake-and-rider in the Genesee Valley. 

"Nonsense," said Richard, "Come along, stranger, don't be 
shy. I'll pull you through," and so he did, but his hind legs 
dropped into the ditch on the landing side of the hedge. 

"Richard, that was my fault. I will never interfere with 
you again at a bull-finch." 

We rode through a number of gates, a lane and along the 
highway. Then we entered a meadow, jumped a small hedge, 
and a sight to be remembered met my ej^es. Forty riders, 
more or less, were sailing down the gradual slope of a great 
pasture field toward a stream brim full from the recent rains. 
I had served years of apprenticeship at dry ditches and deep 
ravines at home, but my experience at water was principally 
confined to the usual twelve foot water jumps on exhibition 
grounds. 

Oh, that brook, black, silent, deep looking! Saints and 
ministers of grace defend us ! I was ready to go home. There 
are any number of ravines and ditches in the Genesee Valley, 
as wide and as deep. Why this one should look so frightful, 
simply because it was full of water, I cannot say. I knew it 
must be the safer ditch of the two to cross. I could tell by the 
feeling of Richard that he never thought of turning his back 
to it. 

"Come on," shouted the Colonel, who went past me with 



Two Days With the Quorn (Second Day) 167 

a rush, and there was nothing to be done but to harden my 
heart and take it. 

"Fast at water and ditches and slow at timber," is the 
rule. 

The Colonel went over all right. This encouraged me. 
I was about ten rods behind, but a second later a little to the 
right of my line a rider went splash into the stream. There 
was another ominous splash to the left, but I had no time to 
look. 

^'The parson's new hat floated down the stream; 
The brim was covered with mire. 
His riderless horse was all lather and steam. 
No questions were asked at the time, it would seem 
The pace was too good to inquire." 

I wondered if the sight of these riders in the water would 
cause Richard to refuse when he came to the brink. Not he; 
Richard never flinched, but went for that stream like a school- 
girl at a skipping rope. He landed me dry shod on the opposite 
bank. 

How I loved that horse ! I looked back and saw two rider- 
less horses and one dripping rider holding on to the bridle, 
his horse almost entirely submerged in the brook. 

*'Oh, Richard, you are a trump." 

"How do you like him?" asked the Colonel, as I rode up. 

"I was never on a better one in my life," I replied. "I did 
not like the bull-finch, and that brook nearly broke my heart, 
but Richard would have it. Richard is managing this game 
all right. I am only a passenger." 

The Colonel looked pleased. 

We are off again. Finally, after a few more gates (I 
never saw so much riding through gates) we came into a field 
with a two bar fence on a small bank and no ditch on either 



168 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

side. This was the first thing I had seen that looked Hke home. 
I expected, of course, to take it, but held back, being in a 
strange country. Not a man went for that timber. 

"What's the matter with that fence?" I asked a fellow 
rider, who had never turned a hair at the sight of the brook. 

"You are welcome to it," said he; "I own to flunking that 
sort." 

I should not like to say that a four-foot fence of timber 
stopped the Quorn hunt. I think I must be mistaken. 

A mile or more further on the hounds ran into their fox 
and a hundred sportsmen, of the most fashionable pack of 
hounds in England, chanted his funeral dirge with a whoop. 

'Twas a very quick find: I went streaming away, 
That day with the Quorn, on ''Richard the Bay." 
He did all the hunting, I'd no time to look; 
He took me along over hull-finch and brook. 

Two horses went in with a terrible splash. 
But Richard would have it and went with a dash. 
How can I portray my feelings that day? 
On that marvellous hunter, "Richard the Bay!" 

Many thaiiks to the Colonel, may he live long and well. 
And the story of Richard, to his grandchildren tell. 
As long as I live 'tis my pleasure to say 
That first among hunters comes ''Richard the Bay." 



"Unharhoured now the royal stag forsakes 
His wonted lair; he shakes his dappled sides. 
And tosses high his beamy head. 
Such is the cry. 

And such the harmonious din; the soldier deems 
The battle kindling and the statesman grave 
Forgets his weighty cares." 

Somervile. 

XV 

THE ROYAL BUCKHOUNDS 

KING EDWARD III QUEEN ANNE, THE CHURCH AND THE 

CHASE — THE MEET AT ASCOT — THE GREAT ASSEMBLAGE 

QUEEN VICTORIA THE PRINCE AND PRINCESS OF WALES. 

npHE Kings ^nd Queens of Great Britain have always 
-^ been foremost in the art and science of the chase. In 
fact, hunting was formerly confined to the royal families and to 
such retainers as they were pleased to grant the privilege to. 
To date its beginning "is to go back," says J. P. Hore in the 
History of the Royal Buckhounds, "for over one thousand 
years." 

The records of the chase began, we believe, in the reign of 
Edward III, 1327 to 1377. "That monarch," says the same 
authority, "is said to have been every inch a sportsman. He 
took his hawks and hounds with him wherever he went, whether 
at home or abroad, in time of peace or in time of war." 

The custom of taking hounds with the British Army to 
war is in practice to this day. They went with several regi- 



170 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

merits of regulars to South Africa during the war with the 
Boers. Hardly an English gai'rison can be found in any part 
of the world to-day that does not support a pack of hounds. 
The writer has had several delightful days with the regimen- 
tal pack on the little island of Jersey, which is only fourteen 
miles long and four to seven miles wide and has less than 500 
men and officers stationed there at a time. They have a very 
unique way of hunting. The island is so small and well culti- 
vated that only a narrow strip of land along the coast can be 
ridden over. The fences are mostly hedge and earth banks 
where, as in Ireland, a horse jumps upon the bank and then 
jumps off again. 

They lay a drag for six or seven miles and finish with a 
"worry" for the hounds near some hotel along the coast where 
the riders also find something to eat. After lunch they rest 
for an hour or more, then liberate the hounds and run 
the same trail backwards to the kennels. Of course this return 
run is a steeplechase for speed because the hounds are running 
their own tracks back to the kennels as fast as they can lay 
foot to the ground. It is all good sport, the best that can be 
expected. The writer will never forget liis first experience 
in bank jumping on the island of Jersey. His mount was 
very slow but a very clever fencer. In the first five minutes 
of the return run, not knowing the game, he found himself 
quite in the rear. Hounds and riders were seen swinging to 
the right and the writer thought to improve his position by 
cutting across the circle they were making, so he headed his 
lumbering old nag that way. He took a bank fence that was 
only about three feet high from the take off side, when to his 
horror he found it a good seven or more feet from the top of 
the bank to the ground on the landing side. There was notliing 
to do but harden his heart and take the plunge the best he knew 
how. Sitting on a sixteen hand horse whose four feet were 
all in a bunch on the top of an eighteen hand fence, makes 



The Royal BuckJiounds 171 

one feel a bit flighty, to say the least. Just how we managed 
to reach the earth again is still a question. It was a ploughed 
field, but of steep descent, and we landed somehow, but in 
moving on, the old nag's feet got mixed, and down we went. 
The fall began in the first stride after landing and never ended 
until horse and rider fetched up at the bottom of the hill some 
ten rods below. Never in the history of the island of Jersey 
have a man and a horse collected such a quantity of soil on their 
coats as was dragged out of that ploughed field on this occa- 
sion. 

Let us return to the Royal Buckhounds. A quotation from 
the history of the Royal Buckhounds, in reference to a meet 
with this famous pack, is especially interesting as showing the 
true sportsmanlike conduct of King Edward III, in inviting 
his prisoners of rank to join with him in the chase. 

Now let us picture to ourselves the brilliant scene presented 
at a meet of the Royal Buckliounds in those days. In our 
mind's eye we see King Edward in his pride of place, accom- 
panied by the Black Prince, and his wife, — who has achieved 
such celebrity as "The Fair Maid of Kent," through whom 
the Order of the Garter is said to have originated — "time-hon- 
oured Lancaster," Lionel of Clarence, and a brilliant troop of 
lords and ladies, knights galore, and doubtless many a squire 
of low degree, who had but recently won his spurs on numer- 
ous hard-fought fields, all well mounted and eager for the 
chase. Besides the natives, let us glance at the foreigners of 
distinction who are present at the meet. The French King, 
a prisoner of war on parole, the Duke of Orleans, with their 
suites, the flower of the nobility of conquered France, are 
there, trying to forget their misfortune in the pleasures of the 
chase. How the heart of the peasant who came to see the meet 
must throb with national pride as he looks upon the royalty 
of humbled France! What pleasure he must feel as he tells 
his sweetheart by his side that yonder sorrel carries Ralph, 



172 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

Earl of Eu and Guisnes, High Constable of France, and on 
either side she sees Charles, Lord of Blois, and the Earl of 
Tancarville. David, King of Scotland, and his Queen are 
likewise present and likewise prisoners of war. There are 
other great personages at the meet among King Edward's 
guests upon whom fortune has not frowned, whom the fame 
of England attracts to visit their hospitable shores. From the 
East we see the King of Cyprus; from the North, the Sover- 
eign of Denmark. The reigning Duke of Bavaria, the Duke 
of Brabant, Sir Frank van Hall, Sir Henry Eam of Flanders, 
"and many great lords and knights of Almain, Gascoigne, and 
other countries," are also to the fore. A highly-coloured pic- 
ture perchance, yet withal a faithful one without exaggeration. 
Such a scene was witnessed in the vicinity of Windsor in those 
(then rare) piping days of peace, preparatory to the Master 
throwing off the hounds to seek the "antlered monarch of the 
glen" within the confines of the forest "full of wilde dere," 
with "homes hie," the greatest that "were ever seen with eie," 
as old Chaucer hath it. These "grand huntings" were of fre- 
quent occurrence, upon which the King expended, says Barnes, 
in his "History of Edward III," "extraordinary sums." 

"When the cares of state permitted, Queen Anne and the 
high officers of the Court usually repaired to Windsor in July 
for the avowed purpose of buck hunting. The Royal Diana 
Venatrix was early and 'well entred' to the chase under personal 
supervision of her Royal father, who (before he wore the 
weary crown) was the most ardent huntsman of his day. Im- 
bued with such venatic associations, Anne became a mighty 
huntress. She continued to follow hounds on horseback until 
the gout precluded the continuance of that exhilarating exer- 
cise. Nevertheless, her ardour for the chase remaind undi- 
minished; when she could not use the saddle she hunted on 
wheels. Her Majesty's hunting calash was a light two-wheeled 
carriage, containing a single seat, on which the Royal 'whip' 



The Royal Buckhounds 173 

sat gracefully poised, skilfully tooling the splendid black road- 
ster in the shafts. In this vehicle she was enabled to follow a 
run with the buckhounds through the forest glades of 
Merry Windsor, sometimes covering forty miles in a single 
day. 

"Hunting predominated in every part of the Kingdom. 
The example set by the Royal pack found emulation in all 
quarters, hounds were ridden to by all classes, from lords and 
ladies of high degree to the sturdy yeomen farmers. 

"Like many of her predecessors," concludes the author 
above quoted, "Queen Anne delighted to see 'Common people' 
hunt and be merry when riding to her hounds." 

So it has ever been and is to tliis day a cardinal virtue of the 
English nobility to make room and give welcome to the com- 
mon people who desire to join them in the chase of any game 
afield. 

Queen Elizabeth, says the same author, "Kept Stag- 
hounds, Harthounds, Harriers and Otterhounds." 

The church vied with the state in following the chase, from 
the Bishop down to the poorer priest. 

Since the reformation, however, the pastime among the 
"cloth" has been much curtailed, nevertheless, there is to-day 
hardly a Hunt in Great Britain but has from one to half a 
dozen hard riding parsons on its list of members, and very 
welcome attaches they are to any hunt. 

Even to this day there are in England several packs of 
hounds whose M. F. H's fight death in the saddle three days 
of the week, and the devil from the pulpit on the seventh. 

"The latest recruit to the ranks of Master of Foxhounds in 
England," says "Rider and Driver," "is the Rev. Sir William 
Hyde of Melf ord Hall, Long Melford, Suffolk. Five years ago 
Sir William established a capital pack of harriers to hunt the 
country around Long Melford; but on hearing that the New- 
market and Thurlow country was falling vacant, he allowed 



174 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

himself to be nominated as M. F. H. of the country. When 
at Cambridge University, Sir William Hyde Parker was 
whipper-in to the Trinity College Foot Beagles, and has ever 
since been deeply interested in hunting, so he came to his new 
post well prepared. The Rev. Charles Rundas Everett, a 
whilom navy chaplain, was Master of the famous Berkshire 
Vale Harriers in the sixties and seventies." 

Parson sportsmen as a rule are the most enjoyable men 
one can meet with in any country, and why should they not 
enjoy the harmless joys of life like other men as they pass 
along? Are they not flesh and blood? Shall we not all lie 
alike in our graves? 

If a preacher i« a teacher by example as well as by words, 
how is he to demonstrate every day religion except by an 
every day example and how can he better set that example than 
by actual contact with week day men, in week day sports? 

Parson Jack Russell was one of the most noted hunting 
characters in England. He was not only a hard riding par- 
son to hounds, but was Master and huntsman to his own pack 
of otter as well as foxhounds. 

He was also a noted breeder of terriers and was the first, 
we believe, to enter terriers in a regular way to the chase of 
the fox. 

Here is the Parson's own description of "Trump," the pro- 
genitress, says "Thormanby," in "Kings of the Hunting 
Feld," of the renowned Russell strain of Fox Terriers: "White 
with a patch of dark tan over each eye and ears, while a similar 
spot not larger than a penny, marked the roots of the tail. 
Coat thick, close and a trifle wiry, legs straight as arrows, size 
and height, those of a full grown vixen." 

"So great was his fame as a huntsman and Master," says 
the same author, "that when his meets were announced the 
whole countryside kept holiday. No farmer who had a horse 
or a pony failed to be present. Labour was entirely suspended 



The Royal Buckhounds 175 

and even the women put on their Sunday bonnets and shawls 
to go and see Parson Russell find his fox." 

This grand old sportsman hunted his hounds to his eighty- 
sixth year. His noble deeds in the hunting field and church 
as well, will be handed down in Devonshire to innumerable 
generations yet unborn. 

We have been dwelling in covert overlong. Let us hasten 
on to a day, when in company with his good friend Col. Rich- 
ardson, whom the reader already knows as the owner of 
"Richard the Bay," the writer paid a visit to Windsor Castle 
and rode through the great Windsor park forest to the meet 
of the Royal Buckhounds at Ascot. It was a notable gather- 
ing, for it was at the time of the Queen's jubilee. Many per- 
sons of the royal court, official dignitaries of the government, 
officers of the army and navy, were assembled at Windsor to 
join in the royal welcome extended to distinguished foreign 
visitors. 

We reached Windsor the day before, so as to be present to 
witness the arrival of her Majesty's royal guests. 

The *Prince and Princess of Wales, the Duke and Duchess 
of York, and many others were at the station to welcome the 
distinguished guests. The city was gaily decorated with flags 
and bunting. The noted "Life Guards," probably the finest 
body of men in the service of any country, were on hand as an 
escort, and a regiment of two of the regulars Hned the streets 
from the station to the castle. 

It was all very grand, but to see these great men and a 
hundred other titled ladies and gentlemen the following day 
riding in the chase among tenant farmers, shop keepers and 
jobmasters, was the best sight of all. Her Majesty, Queen 
Victoria, honoured the occasion with her presence by driving 
to the meet in a common victoria like scores of others, who were 
there on a similar mission. It was at this particular meet that 
*Since crowned King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra. 



176 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

we saw a grand old man of eighty or more, leaning heavily on 
his daughter's shoulder as he left his carriage — for he was quite 
a cripple — to be lifted into the saddle and fastened there with 
straps about his legs. The reins were put in his hands and 
with no attendant save liis daughter, he rode that day in the 
chase. Soon the noted pack came out on the four corners with 
no more pomp or display than there is to be seen at any 
ordinary meet. Meanwhile, the Prince of Wales was riding 
about among the tenant farmers and nobles, to whom he 
was, alike, speaking a word and recognising with a kindly 
smile. 

These are the qualities that go so far towards making the 
Prince of Wales so popular with the British people. He is 
first, last and all the time, a genuine sportsman. He is noted 
as a breeder of all kinds of farm stock which he enters at all 
the leading fairs, as well as at the local shows. He never ex- 
hibits anything but what he breeds and raises on his own 
farms. He competes every year and loses to tenant farmers 
more often than he wins, but he is out with them to play the 
game, win or lose. At these exliibitions his cattle stand in 
ordinary stalls alongside those of ordinary farmers. 

For the day, at least, he is neither prince nor peer, but an 
English farmer, and as such goes walking about the grounds 
inspecting the stock, shaking hands with the farmers, and 
thanking a shepherd lad for holding a prize ram while he parts 
the wool to inspect the quality of fleece. 

This is the most charming characteristic, not only of the 
Prince of Wales, but of the royalty of Great Britain in gen- 
eral. Whatever their faults, they are as a rule, under all cir- 
cumstances, true sportsmen. In whatever game they enter, 
they put themselves for the time being on a level with their 
humblest competitors. 

They tell a good story in Scotland concerning the Prince of 
Wales — a story, it is said, that he is fond of telling upon him- 



The Royal Buckhounds 177 

self. It seems that his Royal Highness and two other gentle- 
men of the Royal family were bird shooting in Scotland. 
When the day's sport was over they came out into the high- 
way, where it had been arranged that their host's carriage was 
to meet them. Through some misunderstanding the carriage 
failed to arrive at the appointed place. Meantime a Scotch 
farmer happened along in a two-wheeled farm or market cart. 
The Prince of Wales proposed to his friends that they ask the 
farmer for a ride into town. 

"Would you kindly give us a lift into town?" inquired the 
prince. 

"Come up," replied the farmer, after looking these gentle- 
men over critically, "come up and be smart about it, for a ha' 
no too much time for getting me butter to the evening express 
for Edinburgh." 

The Prince of Wales got up in front and the other two 
gentlemen sat up behind, guns in hand, on a seat riding back- 
wards. The Scotchman whipped up and they were off at a 
rattling pace. After driving a little distance the Prince of 
Wales turned to one of the gentlemen riding behind and 
inquired, "Are you coming on all right, prince?" 

"Oh nicely, thank you. This is quite the most enjoyable 
drive I have had in years." 

At this the farmer pricked up his ears and finally inquired 
of the Prince of Wales, "Who are the gentlemen up behind?" 
"The one back of you," replied the prince, "is Prince Charles 
of Denmark and the other is Prince Henry of Battenberg." 
There was a long pause, when the farmer continued, "And who 
are you?" "Well," replied the genial Prince, "they call me the 
Prince of Wales." There was another long pause, when his 
Royal Highness added, "Now I have told you who we are, 
perhaps you will kindly tell us whom we have the honour of 
riding with." "Aim the Tzar of Russia," replied the farmer, 
to the great delight of his three princely passengers. 



178 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

The meet of the Royal Buckhounds and a ride through the 
great forests of Windsor Castle, was a day to remember, espe- 
cially on account of the presence of Her Majesty, the Queen, 
who seemed supremely happy in the fact that her hounds were 
giving every one such a grand day's sport. 



''He stands at bay, against yon knotty trunk. 
That covers well his rear; his front presents 
An host of foes" 

Somervile. 

XVI 

A DAY WITH LORD ROTHSCHILD'S STAG- 
HOUNDS 

NEW year's eve in LONDON — THE FOG THE MEET — THE 

CRATED STAG ENLARGING THE STAG THE CHASE — THE 

CAPTURE. 

A SPORT loving English friend who knew the writer's ad- 
•^^ miration for an English hound, his fondness for an Irish 
hunter and his weakness for riding to hounds whenever oppor- 
tunity afforded, said, "You ought to pay a visit to Lord Roths- 
child's staghounds and the hunting stables of his brother, Mr. 
Leopold de Rothschild at Leighton Buzzard, for the pack is one 
of the best to be found in the Kingdom; and finally, if you 
would like a cross country gallop over some of the most beauti- 
ful hunting country in the Queen's domain, you should not 

fail " 

"But I have not had the pleasure of meeting his Lordship." 
"Never mind that, you simply write him a letter saying you 
are from America and you would like to visit the kennels and 
stables, and your way will be made smooth." 

"On any other subject," continued my friend, "it might be 
difficult, but when it comes to a question of sport, hounds, 
hunters or hunting, there is no barrier. An English nobleman 



180 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

may seek the most exclusive club or society, but when it comes 
to a question of sport all meet on the level; and if in visiting 
this stud and kennels you are not made welcome, it will be the 
first time in the history of Great Britain that an English 
sportsman, no matter what his station, ever failed. If you 
wish, I will write Lord Rothscliild for you. You certainly 
ought to see these hounds and I am sure his Lordship will be 
very pleased to have you." 

In due time there came the followmg: 

"Lord Rothschild directs me to say he will be very pleased 
to have you visit the kennels, which are at Ascot, Leighton 
Buzzard. If you will kindly inform his brother, Mr. Leopold 
de Rothschild, who lives at Ascot, on what day and train you 
are coming, he will see that you are met at the station and 
shown all about." 

There are few more interesting or more beautiful places 
in England than the home of Mr. Leopold de Rothschild at 
Ascot. 

The private secretary, Mr. Tarver, took me in hand, first to 
visit the kennels, where the huntsman, John Boore, exhibited 
singly and in couples, as my friend predicted, some of the 
grandest staghounds in England, all twenty-five inches and 
over, at the shoulder, and as alike as peas from the same pod, 
especially those of his own breeding. 

Boore had lately come into the position of huntsman made 
vacant by the celebrated huntsman and hound breeder, Fred 
Cox, who for forty-five years had filled that position before 
him. Boore loves a hound and it was easy to see he had the eye 
and judgment in hound breeding to preserve and perpetuate 
the very high standard set by liis predecessor. 

The hounds duly inspected, we passed the enclosure where 
the stags were confined — some eight or ten of them — in a pad- 
dock adjoining a stable into which they are driven and from 
which they are carted, in turn, to be liberated for the chase. 




LORD ROTHSCHILD AND MR. LEOPOLD DE ROTHSCHILD 



A Day With Lord Rothschild's Staghounds 181 

When they are finally brought to bay at the close of the chase, 
they are secured by ropes or driven into a near-by staole, from 
which they are again forced into the cart. They are returned 
to the paddock to wait their turn to lead the chase again. 

Now we come to the celebrated heavy weight hunters, for it 
must be remembered that Mr. Leopold de Rothschild rides at 
something over fifteen stone or two hundred and twenty-five 
pounds. This means that it requires a good horse to carry 
him. 

Nearly all the hunters have been Irish bred and have been 
selected with great care and at prices consistent with the weight 
they have to carry as well as their ability beyond question to 
carry their owner over some of the stiff est jumping country in 
that part of England. It is doubtful if there can be found in 
any other one stud in England so many thoroughly qualified 
heavy weight hunters. There were probably a score of them 
that would weigh twelve hundred pounds and over, with bone 
enough for cart horses, and still with quality such as one only 
finds in the Irish hunter of such great size. While many of 
them were a bit rough and ragged about the hips, also a char- 
acteristic of the Irish hunter, they were exceedingly muscular. 
There was not what might be called a short-backed horse in 
the string. 

"Must have length to get on," said the groom, "and a horse 
to keep with his Lordship's staghounds over grass must keep 
moving." 

After a look through the racing stables, we repaired to the 
manor house through one of the most lovely, old-fashioned, 
formal gardens in England. The house itself is a dream of 
beauty and a joy to all beholders. 

It was New Year's Eve in London. It was a day that even 
a Londoner, who seldom sees the sun in winter, calls "beastly." 
The lamps in the street had been burning with a sallow light 



182 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

all day. A thick, yellow, greasy fog enveloped everything, 
bringing with it from the air above the smoke and soot from 
a milKon fires. It made yom' eyes smart and irritated your 
lungs and lampblacked your linen. It not only made every- 
thing damp and clammy to the touch but it penetrated your 
bones to chill the marrow and make you cross outside and 
inside. 

Such a day was December thirty-first, eighteen hundred and 
ninety-nine, in London. We had spent our Christmas away 
from home and now the New Year was at hand, but in such a 
melancholy garb as to bring on a fit of homesickness, or some- 
thing worse, the blues. 

In the hotel bar-room, the landlady was demanding an 
extra sixpenny piece from a transient. The soft expressionless 
face of the barmaid even failed to produce a grin as she tittered 
to a soft-pated youngster, who was drinking her health while 
he squeezed her hand over the bar, and the other chappies who 
had come in on the same errand were dull and stupid beyond 
the effects of "polly and scotch." 

"Here's a letter for you, sir," said mine hostess, unex- 
pectedly. It read: "Mr. Leopold de Rothschild wishes me to 
inform you that there is to be a meet of Lord Rothschild's 
hounds to-morrow at Vicarage Farm, Wingrave, Leighton 
Buzzard. Although it is a bye day, Mr. Rothschild thinks 
you would enjoy it, as it will be over some of our most beauti- 
ful country. This being a hoHday for many, the attendance 
is sure to be good. Mr. Rothscliild also wishes me to say that 
if you can come, answer by wire so I can arrange for your 
mount, which I have in reserve pending your reply. 

'Tarver. 
"Private Secretary to Leopold de Rothschild.'* 

"If I can come!" I would go anywhere to get out of this, 
but really I am as bad as the ladies, bless them, I have nothing 
to wear. One pair of riding trousers is in the wash, the other 



A Day With Lord Rothschild's Staghounds 183 

needs mending; however, if the fog is as thick to-morrow no 
one will be the wiser whether I have "anything to wear" or 
not. "If I can come." Yes, if I can crawl I will come. Wonder 
if the fog will lift. What is the forecast for to-morrow? "Sta- 
tionary barometer, London and vicinity. Cloudy and fog." 

I was slow making friends with Morpheus that night 
and when finally he took a hand he was so shy about it that 
my dreams came in a tangle. It seemed that while lying in a 
puddle of ice water (that was owing to the damp linen sheet 
that nothing could warm) , a great stag came to the puddle to 
quench his thirst, which was so great that it seemed he would 
drink all the water and thus expose the dreamer's hiding 
place, for he had "nothing to wear" and had taken to this 
refuge in hopes the riders would pass him unobserved. Then 
came the hounds, and they all commenced to drink and they 
were as tliirsty as the stag, who still continued to guzzle down 
the water until the pond was nearly dry. A few pond lily 
leaves were now all that were left by way of covering and he 
knew how Eve must have felt with all the animals of the garden 
staring at her when she and Adam received notice to vacate, — 
she having "nothing to wear." The dreamer saw the riders 
come galloping up to water their horses. Just then there was a 
pull at the pond lily leaves. The stag was eating them. No, 
he was mistaken. It was only a gentle pull on the bedclothes 
by the chambermaid, and, "I have brought your hot water, 
sir; the clock has gone five, sir. The boots will bring your 
riding breeches and hunting boots in a moment." 

"How is the weather?" 

"The fog is still on, sir," — going to the window to raise the 
shade, — "but I think it's surely going to clear, sir." 

It was evident that she had waited on hunting men before. 
She knew her trade and received a shilling for her cheerful 
prophecy when otherwise she would have had to do with a 
sixpence. 



184 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

"Will you have your tea brought up or will you take it in 
the breakfast room? The cab has been ordered for you at 
five-thirty, sir." 

What a relief that the lily pond was only a dream and that 
"it was surely going to clear." The bill was too much by a 
couple of shillings. Well, no matter. The chambermaid, boots 
and hall porter received a double fee, for it's "surely going to 
clear," and we must go a-hunting to-day. 

"Euston Station," shouted the hall porter to cabby and, 
■"look sharp to catch the six train for Leighton." 

The fog seemed thicker and blacker than ever, but only 
think if it should be clear at Leighton and we not there. 

Arriving at Leighton, I found the Red Lion Inn, a hostelry 
*'for sportsmen designed." Madam Host was as full of go for 
the occasion as a brass band. The breakfast was splendid and 
although the fog had not lifted there were indications that it 
was trying to do so. 

Many had come from London with their horses, a dozen or 
more, which were brought along by the same train. These 
especially designed cars for hunters, which are put on all the 
regular trains the day of any meet with any pack of hounds 
within twenty-five or thirty miles of London, are the best that 
could be contrived for the purpose. They are set on the switch 
at the station and the groom in charge looks after the horses 
until they are wanted to ride to the meet, or perhaps they are 
sent on at once and the rider follows in a public conveyance. 
The train from the north brought in as many more riders and 
hunters, and soon after breakfast, men and women in riding cos- 
tume were all about the Red Lion Inn. Riders from a dis- 
tance, say twelve to twenty miles, were riding up singly and 
in pairs so as to give their mounts a taste before going on to the 
meet. 

The Landlady said she knew I was from America. She 
said she had a brother there. Although I had not had the 



A Day With Lord Rothschild's Staghounds 185 

pleasure of meeting her brother, she took me especially in hand. 

"Is this your first visit to the Red Lion?" 

"Indeed it is, but I am sure it will not be the last." 

"No?" 

"I have just had the best breakfast I ever had in England." 

Then we fell into a bit of gossip concerning the interesting 
people in the house and those arriving or passing the door. 

"That's the Earl of Essex and his son, Lord Maiden," 
she volunteered as an elderly man and a youth rode up 
together. 

Lady Lurgan was next pointed out as one of the best lady 
riders in England. That's the Earl of Irchester, the Earl 
of Clarendon, and Lady Edith, his daughter. 

That stout man is the Hon. Walter Rothscliild, M. P., son 
of Lord Rothschild. He rides sixteen stone (224 lbs). 

Lady Lillian Crenfell and the Earl of Leitrim, Col. Wood- 
house, Col. Rich and son, and Commander Rich were next 
pointed out. 

"The two young men who have just ridden up," said my 
hostess, "are the sons of the Earl of Rosebery, and the young 
lady. Lady Sybil Primrose, their sister, etc. etc." 

Many other notable personages were pointed out to me by 
Mr. Tarv^er who, when we were mounted, piloted me to the 
meet where he presented me to Mr. Leopold de Rothschild 
and several others. I mention this only to show the courtesy 
of an English nobleman to a man with no title save that of an 
American farmer, who, as was well known to Lord Rothschild, 
was in England on business working for his daily bread — his 
passport being his fondness for a horse and a hound and his 
love of the chase. 

The meet was at Vicarage Farm, Wingrave, some three 
or four miles from Leighton Buzzard, where we have already 
taken the reader to visit the kennels and the house of Mr. 
Leopold de Rothschild. 



186 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

Each cross road that we passed poured into the main road 
its contribution of riders, so that before the meet was reached 
the highway contained ahnost an unbroken procession. Occa- 
sionally a youth, or light headed rider in a new hunting coat^ 
or a horse dealer who could not resist the opportunity to dis- 
play himself or his horse, went galloping by on the side of the 
road as though he had been thrown out of the run and was 
making all speed to recover the hounds. There was a timid 
city chappie on a nervous three-cornered rake of a thorough- 
bred that the best architect or land surveyor could neither 
design nor measure. A very uncomfortable partnership they 
made for each other, but they afforded a lot of amusement for 
the lookers-on. The horse, instead of going forward head first, 
went drifting down the road sideways like a yacht that had 
slipped her moorings and was going down river beam first, 
sometimes stern first. 

Now and again the horse would lower his head and throw 
the rider — a tall, slim man — onto his neck, then he would 
start straight ahead as if a flag had fallen before him, in any 
direction he happened to be heading, when the spell struck him. 
Sometimes he headed down off the macadam as if he were 
going to take the hedge. But instead he downed helm and 
changed from the port to the starboard tack and so continued 
until he finally fetched up on the opposite side of the road, 
drifting, drifting, bolting ahead, coming in stays, and so on 
from one side of the road to the other, greatly to the amuse- 
ment of small boys and farm lads, who offered suggestions as 
the pair drifted past. 

"Your 'orse is giving you lots of ride for your money," 
volunteered one farm hand over the fence. 

Said another farm hand to his companion: "I say, Bill, I 
say. Bill, there goes a 'orse what 'ad 'is 'ead put on where his 
tail oughter be. 'E's built to go tother end to." 

"No, hit's cause the rider is cross-eyed and 'e can't no 



A Day With Lord Rothschild's Staghounds 187 

more go the way 'e's looking than 'e can look the way 'e's 
going. 'E oughter wear blinkers." 

"Bill, you are wrong again. Hit's my opinion as 'tis only 
an oat as is pricking 'im. 'E'll straighten out when it gets 
past the tickhng spot." 

Here we are at the meet, a typical English cross roads 
where there is a big sign on a very small inn under a thick 
straw roof. It stood facing the village green and was called 
"The Golden Fleece." A private house on the other side of 
the green does duty as a store, post and telegraph office. A few 
other thatched cottages, covered with English ivy, squatted 
low on the ground, behind neatly trimmed hedge enclosures, 
their front yard filled with ornamental shrubs, flowers and 
roses. In the centre of the green is the public duck pond, the 
green itself being a pasture of the fowls, a playground for the 
neighbouring children, a whittling place for the village talent 
and a lounging place for any one so disposed. 

Just back of all this, but hidden by a high hedge, shrubs 
and tree border, is the Rectory, which is better seen from a 
little way down the road where the snug little Rectory Lodge 
makes a break in the hedge. There you may look down the 
beautiful circling drive and across a meadow to the Rectory 
itself which, although more than half hidden by vines and 
shrubbery, looks ideal. On the opposite side of the road, back 
from the highway in a meadow of great spreading oaks, stands 
the "Hall," the home of the village Squire, a man who, if his 
temperament suits and it usually does in England, hves the 
ideal life, — a few hunters to ride, a few horses to drive, a game 
preserve on his own land, a shooting box in Scotland and a 
yacht on the Solent. He owns a thousand broad acres where 
he and his tenants breed pure bred stock wliich win honours 
at the fair in competition with her Majesty the Queen, and 
his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. 

The squire is an old man now, judging by his white hair 



188 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

and portly build; but he is at the meet on a trusty Norfolk 
cob which looked as if it could carry a ton. While he may not 
cut it down across country with the younger bloods, he will see 
quite as much of the fun, for he knows every lane and gate 
in all the country round. It is his own land the hunt is to ride 
over. His sons are out on hunters of liis own breeding. His 
granddaughter is by his side sitting astride on a little Welsh 
cob which will carry her to perfection and, as you can easily 
imagine, greatly to her grandsire's delight. 

What a crowd there was! Something over a hundred 
mounted riders assembled at this meet, which is a hundred 
short of the usual attendance at the spring meet or when the 
fixture is at Ascot or at Tring Park, the home of Lord Roths- 
child. 

Here come the hounds, headed by the huntsman, and the 
whipper-in, followed by a score or more of riders who 
have purposely lingered to keep them company. If the hounds 
looked a grand lot at the kennels, what shall we say of them 
now, this twenty odd couple of dog hounds selected with care 
as to size and markings? As they come trotting on to the 
village green beside the superbly mounted horseman and whip- 
per-in in their pink hunting coats, white breeches and black 
velvet caps, the crowd receive them with a cheer. At this 
moment Mr. Leopold de Rothschild drives up with the other 
members of his family. 

By the time they have answered the salutations of their 
friends, and a few strangers and out of town visitors have 
been introduced, their mounts are led up, their over- 
coats are dropped off and in a moment more they are in the 
saddle. 

The most noted, if not the most interesting personage is 
yet to arrive. We have not long to wait. 

"The stag! The stag! Here comes the stag." Again the 
crowd on the green parts like the waters of the Red Sea to 




JOHN BOORE, HUNTSMAN 




GIVING THE STAG ' LAW ' 



A Day With Lord Rothschild's Staghounds 189 

receive Pharaoh's chariot, and likewise closes upon it when it 
enters the crowded green. 

Lord Rothschild, who, with his brother, headed the proces- 
sion, was followed bj^ the riders and the crated stag. We all 
moved on to witness the "enlargement," as the li^beration of the 
stag is called. This took place a mile or more from the meet. 
The hounds, however, remained at the Village to allow twenty- 
minutes or half an hour "law" to the stag before they were put 
upon his trail. 

Finally, after entering a most beautiful field with great 
rolling meadows, a wide expanse of the richest and most beauti- 
ful agricultural district came into view. The crated stag was 
halted near the gate in the field. The door was thrown open and 
out stepped his highness. Then as the crowd of spectators gave 
a cheer, he crouched for a mighty spring that sent him liigh in 
the air. Thus, in a succession of bounds, he circled the field, 
returning to within a hundred feet or so of the van. He then 
jumped the hedge, almost in the presence of the crowd, whose 
renewed cheering sent him across the field to the right, giving 
us all a splendid chance to view him as he raced away over the 
crest of a distant hill to disappear in a clump of timber. 

After allowing twenty minutes "law," as above recorded 
the huntsman and whippers-in came smartly on with the pack. 
The moment the hounds began to feel the line away went their 
tongues in one grand chorus and the chase began. 

It was a glorious sight, hounds, horses, men. One and all 
race away down the vale, across the great fields, up the slope, 
over ditches, hedges and timber into the wood, where the stag 
was seen to disappear. That first twenty minutes, what a 
thrilling ride! It was such a twenty minutes as comes only 
now and then to those who frequent hunting fields. Those 
beautiful fields, that wonderful turf and the hedges, how they 
flew past and under us, they seemed to be coming at us like 
driftwood racing down a mighty stream. 



190 TJie Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

"No ships tcith xdnd and tide. 
And all their canvas icings. 
Scud half so fast." 

We gain the hill, pass the wood and away again, crossing 
another vale. The blood of my Irish mount is up and go he 
will. The stag had taken to water in a small pond in front 
of some gentleman's home. It was a bad move, for now the 
hounds were upon him and raced him from scent to view, 
back through the little -vdUage of the meet. Finally they 
brought him to bay, in the outer entry of a Httle chapel in an 
adjoining town. Facing the hoimds, he stood them at bay. He 
was soon secured and we all went back to our hotel at Leighton 
Buzzard, where one of the best of dinners was serv^ed ahke to 
Earls and farmers, Dukes and traders. 



^'The huntsman knows him by a thousand marks. 
Black and embossed; nor are his hounds deceived; 
Too well distinguish these, and never leave 
Their once-devoted foe; familiar grows 
His scent and strong their appetite to overtake/' 

Somenile. 

XVII 

THE CHASE OF THE WILD RED DEER IN 

DEVONSHIRE 

THE DEVON AND SOMERSET STAGHOUNDS — LORNA DOONE^S COUN- 
TRY THE QUANTOCK HILLS THE MEET ANTHONY HUX- 

TABLE THE TUFTERS THE CHASE — TAKING THE DEER— r. 

A LONG RIDE HOME. 

X17HILE in England in the winter of 1898, I received a 
' ^ letter from Mr. Alfred Skinner of Bishop's Lydard, 
Devonshire, im^ting me to visit him and have a day vvdth the 
Devon and Somerset staghomids, then hunting three days a 
week in the Quantock Hills, near ^Mr. Skinner's farm. 

As this was not my first visit to the famous Devonshire 
country nor my first day with the Devon and Somerset stag- 
hounds, I knew something of what was in store for me: I was 
not long in deciding to test once more the hospitahty of "Pond 
Farm," which, you must know, is of the genuine Devonshire 
sort, with Devonshire cream and Devonshire cider, to say noth- 
ing of the gooseberry tarts, etc. Added to this was my very 
vivid recollection of one of the grandest day's sport I had 
ever experienced ^Wth hounds; this was in '93. How many, 
many times had I lived over that memorable run! I had but 



192 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

lately finished reading that fascinating novel, "Lorna Doone" ; 
and to find myself riding to the "meet" in that famous "Doone" 
country, amid just such surroundings as the author had 
described, was a double pleasure and made the novel doubly 
real. I recalled also, with much pleasure, the breedy little 
roan mare that Mr. Sldnner had secured for my mount; and 
how the hunted deer led us a steeplechase pace down one hill 
and up another, down again, and through farm after farm, 
over ditches and fences, some of which were big sod fences 
where a horse jumps to the top, balances there for a moment 
with all four feet in a bunch, and then jumps down on the 
other side. Often there is a ditch on the opposite side, some- 
times on both: sometimes the fence looks low on the "take off" 
side but you find, after it is too late to change your mind, that it 
is five feet or more from the top of the fence to the landing 
on the other side. Then, seated on a horse that is balancing 
liimself on the top of such a jump, it seems a terrible distance 
to the ground. There is nothing to do but put your trust in 
your mount, and take the drop as best you can. 

I also recall there were nearly a hundred mounted riders 
that day, with a good sprinkling of ladies, and that it took 
a good deal of hard riding to keep some of our fair com- 
panions in sight, when hind and hound were racing out of 
view. I remember how, for one hour and twenty minutes, 
the deer set such a pace that fully half the field were left hope- 
lessly behind in the first half of the run; and how she finally 
took to the sea, and after swimming out for a mile or more, 
returned to be taken on the rocky north shore of the British 
Channel, twelve or fifteen miles from where the pack first 
"laid on." Then the Master, Mr. Bisset, kindly presented 
me with one of the hind's feet, which I had mounted as a match- 
box; and a month or so after my return to America, I had 
the pleasure of receiving the pelt of the deer, with the same 
gentleman's compliments. It is needless to say that, with 



The Chase of the Wild Red Deer in Devonshire 193 

such recollections as these, I was on the best of terms with 
myself for the whole week between receiving Mr. Skinner's 
letter and my landing at Bishop's Lydard. 

The meet was at "Triscombe Stone," near the summit of 
one of the loftiest peaks of the Quantock range, and about 
seven miles from Mr. Skinner's house. We were joined on 
the way by gentlemen and ladies until, by the time we 
reached the foot-hills, we formed quite a cavalcade. It was 
very pleasing to see among them some old — I should say 
elderly — gentlemen ; for one can hardly call a man of sixty or 
even seventy years of age, old, when one sees him mounted 
and bound for a hard day's ride over some of the roughest 
hunting country in England. These men are not old, and as 
long as they can sit on a horse and ride to hounds, they will 
outride death, and be, as we saw them, young at seventy. 
There were ladies also whose hair was beautifully sprinkled 
with grey, whose foreheads were scarred and furrowed by 
time, but they had become young again, as you could see by 
their faces, on which a smile was so near the surface that it 
appeared, if you addressed them with the most ordinary 
remark. There is certainly nothing in the world like hunting 
to turn backwards the hands on the dial of time ! Nothing like 
a hard day's gallop to hounds to cheat the family physician 
out of his living and to put off the undertaker's approaching 
account. There were farmers on rough and unkempt horses 
which had rested from the furrow yesterday that the master 
might "go a-hunting to-day." Beside them rode lords and 
ladies, squires and gentlemen, their mounts, like themselves, 
well groomed, showing their "quality" in good blood and good 
breeding. There were also a good number of farmers' sons 
mounted on "green ones" that morning "caught up" from the 
fields. Their rusty saddle-irons and ccbbled bridles made them 
a great contrast to some London swell on his five hundred 
guinea hunter, with a liveried groom in attendance, both dressed 



194 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

after the latest hunting fashion-plate. They made two of a 
kind, the farmer's son and the swell, in that they were both 
equally anxious to display themselves. It was not difficult, 
however, to see that the farmer's son was enjoying it all far 
the better of the two. Then there was pointed out to me the 
town magistrate, who was never known to want an excuse to 
adjourn court when the Devon and Somerset staghounds were 
hunting the Quantocks; and there was also a physician who 
had driven to the meet, making a few hurried calls on the way. 
At the meet he exchanged his carriage for a hunter and away 
he rode, leaving his patients who did not happen to "live on the 
way" to die, or get well as best they could without him, for as 
the old song says, "he must go a-hunting to-day!" 

There was also the clergyman in his clerical dress, the 
"sporting parson," as he is familiarly called — more by way of 
compliment than otherwise. Few, I imagine, find more 
pleasure in hunting than he; for next to the Master and the 
huntsman, he is the most welcome member of the hunt. He 
knows everyone and everyone knows him, and everyone loves 
him, especially if (as is invariably the case) he is a "good sport," 
rides well and rides straight. Even if you do not know him, 
you must love liim. The sight of him in his clerical suit, 
seated on a well appointed hunter, makes you feel that he is 
your fellow man, capable of enjoying what you enjoy, and of 
being tempted as you are tempted; this draws you towards 
him, for you feel that he is better fitted thereby to intercede 
for your own shortcomings. It is a pleasure to see him riding 
about among friends and neighbours, seated on his trusty 
hunter, the present probably of Lord So-and-so, who admires 
his style of riding to hounds, if he does not patronise his ser- 
mons, and who for the same reason contributes liberally to the 
church subscriptions. 

Long live the "sporting parson" to show us the way across 
the fields when hounds run fastest, and across Jordan as well 



The Chase of the Wild Red Deer in Devonshire 195 

when the way looks hopeless! Of course, in America no one 
would think of applying the epithet "good sport" to a minister 
of the gospel, by way of praise. But in England the term 
seems to have a different meaning from that given it by us. 
There it is generally applied to one who is, as we say, "fair 
and square," who plays fair, whether at cricket or in business; 
stands by a bad bargain, though the law might release him; 
one who lives up to the golden rule. In short, who is, in the 
best sense of the word, a gentleman. 

Others drove to the meet in coaches, with powdered foot- 
men, while smartly dressed servants brought up a brace of 
hunters ; others came in farm carts, butchers' wagons and traps 
of all sorts — to say nothing of the pedestrians, clad in all styles, 
from homespun to the latest Paris wrinkle in hat and frock, 
all making a pilgrimage to "Triscombe stone" to pay their 
respects to, if not to worship, the goddess Diana, who nowhere, 
I beheve, finds more devoted followers than when she sets up 
her shrine in the Quantocks. What a grand procession they 
made, struggling along up the steep hill! Among the throng 
was a single Yankee who, from his desire to keep shaking 
hands with himself over his good fortune at being present, 
you could see with half an eye was having the best time of 
all. 

Arriving at the meet, we rode up to inspect the hounds — 
twenty-two and a half couple, all over twenty-three inches tall 
and with untarnished pedigrees, traceable, it is said, for several 
hundred years. They are, without question, the most noted 
pack of staghounds in England, and the only pack in England 
"ridden to" in the chase of the wild red deer.* 

The huntsman, Mr. Anthony Huxtable, is probably the 
most celebrated huntsman in Great Britain to-day. Punc- 

*Since the above was written, the deer in Devon and Somerset have 
increased to such numbers that the country has been divided and is now 
being hunted by two other packs of staghounds. 



196 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

tually to the minute, at 11 a. m., the Master rides up. He has 
a word with Anthony, then after allo^\ing five minutes' grace 
for late-comers, he gives the signal to kennel the pack. This 
Anthony does in an old barn near at hand, at the same time 
drafting from the pack six of the most obedient hounds, with 
which he returns to the place of meeting. The Master then 
sounds the horn for "going to covert" and we all move on at a 
smart trot, headed by Anthony and the three couple of hounds. 
These selected hounds are called "tufters." The reason for 
taking only a few hounds to draw a covert is that the deer are 
so numerous that the whole pack would be uncontrollable, 
especially as it is only the hinds they wish to chase at this time 
of the year (spring), while in the autumn only the stags are 
hunted. 

The tops of the Quantock Hills are bald of timber, but 
completely covered with heather — a bush growing from fifteen 
to twenty inches high. There are, however, numerous wooded 
ravines leading up the sides of the hills from dense forests. It 
is near the top of these ravines that the deer are at this time of 
day expected to be found. After riding along on the crest of 
the hills for half a mile or more, Anthony turns sharply to the 
left, and alone with the tufters canters down the side of the 
hill, and presently enters one of these wooded ravines; then 
he comes back up the ravine, so as to make the deer "break 
covert" over the top of the hills. All the riders and pedestrians, 
who have come along to see the sport, wait on the summit of 
the hill in the opening. 

Five minutes later, out of the top of the ravine, into which 
Anthony has cast the tufters, there come bounding over the 
heather eight beautiful deer, three stags and five hinds, all in 
full view; in fact, some of the startled creatures find them- 
selves right among the riders and spectators. Hard after 
them come the tufters, and Anthony with them. Quickly he 
notes the course the largest hind is taking, and decides on 



The Chase of the Wild Red Deer in Devonshire 197 

her for the chase. In the meantime, of course, the hounds are 
separated, for there is more than a deer for each; but a blast 
from Anthony's hunting horn, emphasised by a crack of his 
hunting crop, calls them to his side, when he quickly "lifts 
them" on to the line of the deer he has marked for the chase. 

Away goes Anthony as if shot from a gun, while we rush 
along at the top of our horses' speed only to see him vanish from 
sight a half mile down the other side of the hill towards the 
bottom land. The Master and riders remain waiting on top of 
the hill. Half an hour passes, then some one shouts, "There he 
is!" and turning, we see the indomitable Anthony standing in 
the heather on the brow of a distant hill — the six tufters by his 
side — and signalling us to come on. The Master hurries away 
to unkennel the pack and bring them on, while the restless 
riders rush headlong down the hill, through the heather, where, 
if their mounts should stumble or catch a foot in some of the 
numerous rabbit burrows, there would be in all probability a 
broken leg for the horse and a broken neck for the rider. 
Down tliis hill, up a steep ravine, down again, up another 
hill and we arrive where Anthony awaits us. Soon the Master 
and the whippers-in with the pack, join us. Anthony now 
leads the way to the bottom lands, where he had followed the 
deer to make sure she had well broken covert. 

As soon as he leads the pack across the line and the hounds 
catch the scent, they give tongue to it in a beautiful chorus as 
they crowd on the line and race away at the top of their speed. 
"Tally ho! Tally ho! Gone away! Gone away!" shouts 
Anthony, while the Master sounds the good news from his 
horn, and before we know what has happened, the chase is on. 
Our horses, which we have been saving as much as possible 
(greatly to their disgust), are now given free rein, and the 
way they lay foot to the sod over the first few meadows will 
never be forgotten. Arriving at a small stream, the hounds 
throw up their heads, their music ceases, and we are at the 



198 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

first check. The deer, true to her instinct, has taken to water 
to elude her pursuers. The stream is about ten to twelve 
feet wide and four to six inches deep. 

Now comes Anthony's opportunity to display his wood- 
craft. Which way has the deer gone? Up stream or down? 
Noting the direction of the wind, he instantly decides on going 
down stream; and keeping in the stream we follow along. 
Both banks are eagerly watched for foot-prints. 

The hounds, meanwhile, are splashing listlessly along beside 
Anthony's horse. On they go for a few hundred yards, when 
suddenly one of the hounds stops, and rushes to the left bank. 
His hackles are on end and he begins to "feather." Others 
join liim. Anthony halts; no tracks; can it be possible that 
the deer could have gone out there? The hounds seem to 
think so, but the bank is perpendicular and a good five feet 
high, with a thick thorn hedge as much higher growing on the 
very edge of it. Do the hounds mean to say that even a deer 
can from a standing jump clear that bank and hedge? Still 
Anthony waits. Then come a few faint whimpers as if the 
hounds could almost make it out. Still they are not quite 
sure. Then Anthony decides that they are right and cheers 
them on. One hound, in attempting to jump up the bank and 
crawl through the bottom of the hedge, gets a whiff of the 
scent from the field on the other side and gives tongue to it, 
even as he falls backward into the water. This settles the 
question ; and Anthony, with cap in hand, leans over his horse's 
withers, cheering on the hounds with "Speak to it, Sampson! 
On to it, Bluver! Up, Sleepless, up, good hound!" 

Sleepless is the first to make the bank, which is by this time 
so broken away that she is able to make good her footing, and 
away she goes, racing across the field, giving tongue at every 
stride. The other hounds become desperate at this. Again 
Anthony cheers them on with "Hark to Sleepless! Hark to 
Sleepless! On Challenger! Up Vixen!" until with charging 



The Chase of the Wild Red Deer in Devonshire 199 

and falling back, and charging again, a footing is made, and 
all have gone streaming away in the field, which is hidden from 
our view by the hedge. The riders are all held back until the 
last hound has successfully cleared the bank, and then we 
rush on to where the highway crosses the stream. Following 
the road, we come in view of the field, with the forty-five 
hounds scattered all over it. They needed Anthony to help 
them puzzle it out. The trouble is, the deer has evidently 
doubled her tracks, and possibly redoubled them; hence the 
confusion: but Anthony riding into the field brings order out 
of chaos, and lifting the hounds smartly forward, they soon hit 
off the same line again; and we enjoy a glorious gallop through 
some beautiful pastures to another check. 

Here we see the hounds doing some beautiful work; their 
blood is up, but they have overrun the line. Anthony calls 
them to "hark back." They pick up the trail where it turned 
sharply to the left, and away they go through a hedge. It is 
impossible for horses to follow, and the hounds rush away with 
a chorus of voices that makes our hearts ache. Perhaps it is 
the last we shall see of the pack to-day ! We follow the know- 
ing one in a race for the gate leading into the highway, in the 
direction opposite the way the hounds are running. Those 
forty rods to the gate ! It seemed as if our horses, going at the 
top of their speed, would never reach there. There is a small 
boy right at the gate, and he opens it in time — may his sins 
to this hour be forgiven! 

Down the highway we gallop for half a mile ; then stop and 
listen. "They are still running on," says one; "we shall see 
them no more to-day." "No, they are coming this way!" cries 
another. "What shall we do? Where shall we go?" Such 
are the questions and thoughts running through everyone's 
mind. The old hunting rule, "When you don't know where 
to go, stand still," is all that seems to save us from going mad. 
Suddenly the hounds appear from behind a field of timber 



200 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

that has hitherto hidden them from our view, their voices 
coming to us faintly now and then, keeping us between 
hope and despair. We see they are racing away in a 
circle that is bringing them our way. We rush along to inter- 
cept them. They halt, turn sharply to the right, and are 
coming straight for the highway where we stand. On and on 
we go for the next thirty minutes, till the hounds throw their 
heads in a farmyard; and a most welcome check it is. "Seven 
miles from the last check and covered in thirty-three minutes," 
says some one, consulting his watch. But while we are about 
to dismount for a breathing spell, the hounds break away at a 
rattling pace for another five minutes. It seems as if every 
field must be the last, and that the hounds must be on the very 
heels of their prey. Check again! It does not seem possible 
that many more such spurts can be left in deer, hound, horse, 
or man. The deer is evidently making for the sea, but until 
this check it seemed as if she could never hold the pace to reach 
there. 

While waiting in the highway, beyond a farmhouse, the 
hounds pick up the trail again, and come across the road in 
front of us "full cry." It seems impossible that the deer could 
have taken that line, but so it must have been. Where the 
hounds came through the bottom of the hedge, the bank is 
fully eight feet high; on the top of this bank is a stiff hedge 
twelve to fifteen feet high. That a deer could jump the hedge 
from the field side, we have no doubt, but think of the drop on 
the landing side, and of landing in the middle of a macadamised 
road! One would think the slender legs of the deer could 
never withstand such a shock; but they have withstood it, for 
the hounds are running again, not to the sea, as we expected, 
but to the right, following the coast, two or three fields back 
from the beach. On she goes for another eight miles, almost 
straight away over beautiful level grass lands. At last the 
hounds are but a field behind their game, and the riders — 



The Chase of the Wild Red Deer in Devonshire 201 

what is left of them — but a field behind the hounds and in 
full view of the deer. The deer is running slower and is 
apparently almost exhausted. The hounds also are slackening 
their pace, while there is nothing left of the horses, save their 
breeding. They stagger on, however, but are no longer able to 
answer to whip or spur. 

One more field! It looks as if the hounds would overtake 
their deer in the next field. The foremost hounds are scarcely 
a rod from their prize. Anthony is right after them, cheer- 
ing them on to the last mighty effort. Can the hind reach the 
river bank? Yes! With Anthony's favourite hound, Sleepless, 
right at her heels, she leaps into the river twenty feet below, 
and swims for the opposite bank. The hounds attempt to 
follow, but Anthony calls them back. 

Taldng a fisherman's row boat Anthony with the "whipper- 
in" and three hounds, rowed across the river. The steep, 
muddy sandbanks being impassable, the deer, seeing them 
coming, takes to the water again. The boat, however, soon 
overtakes her, and a rope is thrown over the head of the deer, 
which keeps on swimming, towing the boat along with her. 
They pull the boat alongside, and Anthony blindfolds the 
deer with his handkerchief. The three men now tip the boat 
to one side, and all taking hold of the deer lift her as high as 
possible, bringing her sides well up against the gunwale of the 
boat ; then, rocking the boat back, at the same time lifting the 
deer, they land her on her back in the boat; next they tie her 
legs and bring her ashore, where she is despatchd with a hunt- 
ing knife; the "pluck" given to the hounds, and the feet ampu- 
tated at the fetlock joint and given to whomsoever the Master 
wishes to honour. The carcass is given to a butcher or some 
one who is directed by the Master to distribute it among the 
farmers over whose land the chase has gone. The head, how- 
ever, is presented to the writer, who has it mounted and now 
admires it on the wall facing his writing desk. It was the end 



202 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

of the spring season and this was deer number one hundred and 
one taken since the previous autumn. 

The time occupied by the run after laying on the pack was 
two hours and forty minutes. It was four-thirty when we 
started for Mr. Skinner's, twenty miles away. We arrived 
there at nine o'clock. We had been in the saddle eleven and 
one-half hours (less the time spent while Anthony was taking 
the hind from the water) and had covered fully fifty miles 
without a mouthful to eat for man or mount. The grey could 
only walk for the last three miles. The rider was able to get 
into the house, but there was not enough left in him to pull 
off his own boots. But a bucket of hot oat-meal gruel for 
the horse, a hot bath and Mrs. Skinner's softest feather bed 
for the rider, brought both out the next morning none the 
worse, I believe, for as glorious a day's sport as ever was 
enjoyed in the hunting field. 



To W. Phillpotts Williams, Esq., 

Master of the Melton Harriers. 

''The puzzling pack unravel wile by wile. 
Maze within maze, the Covert's utmost hounds. 
Slyly she skirts behind, then cautious creeps. 
And in that very track so lately stained 
By all the steaming crowd, seems to pursue 
The foe she flies." 

Somervile. 

XVIII 

THE CHASE OF THE HARE 

THE HARE THE OLD AND THE NEW SCHOOL METHODS LONG 

LIVE THE CHASE — FOOT HARRIERS. 

P ERHAPS the best way to introduce the subject of Hare 
-■■ Hunting is first to introduce the hare. There is a saying 
among hare hunting men at the present time, which was cen- 
turies old when the morning stars sang together, "Find your 
hare before you catch him." In respect, therefore, to this 
time-honoured maxim, if for no other reason, we had better 
see our hare before we proceed to hunt him. 

As before stated, the hare differs from the rabbit, which he 
greatly resembles, in being larger and faster. Rabbits burrow 
in the ground, where they go to hide, sleep, and bring forth 
their young. The hare, on the contrary, does not burrow, 
never goes to earth, and hides and sleeps in the open fields. 
Their food, habits, and way of running are quite the same. 

The hare is born with a coat of fur, and eyes open. The 



204 TJie Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

rabbit comes into the world naked and blind, a provision of 
nature that best adapts each to the different conditions under 
which it is born. If the rabbit could see at birth, it would 
wander from home before it was able to protect itself by flight 
from its hosts of enemies. The hare, on the contrary, being 
born in the open would alike fall an easy prey to its enemies 
if it made a move in their presence. They breed two or three 
times a year between April and August, and produce from 
two to four "larvet" at a time. They feed at evening and in 
the early morning, while during the day they lie flattened out 
in their "seal" or "form" in the open field, rather than in a 
hedgerow or brush-heap, where without a burrow they would 
easily be tracked and overtaken by foxes, weasels, skunks, etc., 
who seek their prey in hidden and secluded spots. Like the 
thieves that they are, foxes and the like have no taste for 
exposing themselves by travelling through open fields. Experi- 
ence therefore has taught the hare that his safety lies in sleep- 
ing for the day in the open fields where his body is most 
exposed. A wise provision of nature, however, comes to his 
rescue, by giving him a reddish brown coat that seems to 
blend so well with every colour of the field as to nearly defy 
detection even when one's eyes are resting upon him. "Find 
your hare before you catch him" has a far wider meaning than 
one might suppose. 

The ability of some persons to locate a hare is either a 
gift or the cultivation of sight, or possibly the development 
of the real hunting instinct such as our forefathers possessed, 
and which we still find so highly developed in our native 
trappers and in Indians who are born to and live by the chase. 

Anyone, therefore, who is good at finding hares is a most 
welcome attache to any hare hunting organisation. Such a 
one is scarce, even in England, where hunting the hare is in 
general practice, and he is in great demand. Frightening up 
a hare by walking upon her is not finding her. 



The Chase of the Hare 205 

The writer prides himself somewhat on having a fairly 
good eye for game in the forest, but he has never yet been 
able to find a hare, although he has hunted them often, both 
with hounds and gun. 

It makes one feel chagrined to have some friend point one 
out just where you have been looking, or as usual, tell you 
where to look without pointing, and to see there, within a few 
paces, in full view, the object you seek. There she hes — every 
hair lying so snug and close that not one is moved by a passing 
breeze, not a wink of the eye or a turn of the head or the hfting 
of an eyebrow. As you study the object for a moment, the 
deception its colour practises on the eyesight disappears, and 
you wonder why you did not see her before. Your retriever 
has gone carefully over the ground, and he with all his 
keener sense of nose and sight also failed to see what in all 
probability he had been looking at. Presently she bounds 
away, and you must be smart even then with your gun, or 
your game keeps on running. 

It is probably much more to your credit to find your hare 
than it is to stop him with your gun when he is found. 

The care a hare takes in coming up to its "form" or place 
selected for the day's resting place (which form we are told 
is seldom occupied for more than two or three days in suc- 
cession) is most ingenious. Instead of coming straight up 
to it, they begin to circle and double back on their trail, so 
as to make confusion worse confounded to an enemy attempt- 
ing to follow them by scent. Then they will halt and give a tre- 
mendous spring to the right or left, so that to their pursuers 
their line comes to an abrupt ending ; and so on by a succession 
of leaps until they finally land in the chosen spot in an open 
field, or at most in the shadow of a low growing shrub. They 
are said to sleep with their eyes open, but while you can nearly 
step on them before they will expose themselves by moving, 
when they do flee from their form, they go at a rate of speed that 



206 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

only the fastest greyhounds can approach. They can probably 
run two rods to a rabbit's one. Comparing the English hare 
to the Jack rabbit of the western plains, it is hardly too much 
to say that the latter is as much faster than the Enghsh hare 
as the hare is faster than the ordinary rabbit. 

Crafty and evasive as hares are in coming to their form, the 
tricks they play on the hounds are the most interesting part of 
the game. Brayden, in his delightful work "Hare Hunting 
and Harriers," says "The maze they weave in foiling their line 
is something astonishing." 

"True sport," says the same author, "consists in the meet- 
ing of the hounds and the game hunted on nature's own terms 
in a free field, with no favours." A better definition of true 
sport never was given. 

The writer is particularly indebted to that Sportsman 
Poet, Mr. Phillpotts Wilhams, former Master of the Melton 
Harriers, for several "glorious days" as well as much valuable 
information in regard to the chase of the hare. 

All hare hunting men, as we said in the chapter on Jack 
rabbit hunting on the plains, point with pride to ancient liistory 
dating from three hundred and fifty to one thousand years 
B. C, to prove the remote date, if not the beginning, of hare 
hunting. 

Coursing men go to the same goal in the ancient records 
for the starting point of their favourite sport. 

Hare hunting in England goes back to an early period of 
English history — to Edward III, Queen Ehzabeth, James I, 
and so on down to the present time. 

Fox hunting is only a modern game in England as com- 
pared with hunting the hare. Fox hunting was not known, in 
its present form at least, until the beginning of the eighteenth 
century, when scarcity of deer, wolf, and wild boar, caused 
the chase-loving Briton to turn his attention to the fox. 
Although previously looked upon as vermin, to be killed in 



The Chase of the Hare 207 

any and every form, the fox proved, however, to show such 
good sport, that, for the time at least, it quite turned the heads 
of all the followers of the chase. Hare hunting was severely 
affected by this invasion, which swept the country after the 
fashion of all new brooms. 

Hare hunting, however, had been in existence too long to 
give way entirely to the new order of things. It has not only 
survived, but comes up with a stronger army of supporters 
at the present time than it had even in its most palmy days. 
There is more dash and drive and hard riding to foxhounds. 
But the sportsman whose hunting instincts outweigh his taste 
for fast riding, enjoys best of all to see a hard working, melo- 
dious pack of harriers ciphering on a problem that is as frac- 
tions to addition, compared with the task that Reynard puts 
up as a puzzle to foxhounds. 

Hare hunting in England may be said to be conducted by 
two different schools. 

First, the "old school" practitioners who seek to preserve 
the more ancient customs and traditions of hare hunting, and 
stick to the so-called "pure-bred English harriers," a rather 
slow and laborious hound with a splendid nose, a free tongue, 
and a most melodious voice. ( I believe this hound was origin- 
ally a cross-bred animal between the Southern hound and the 
beagle, the Southern hound liimself being an extraction of the 
bloodhound.) Harriers hunt up to their game in a methodical 
and workmanhke manner. If they account for one, or at the 
most, two hares for a day's sport, it is all that is required. 

The old school followers of the chase of puss say that to 
kill a hare in less than about an hour is taking undue advan- 
tage, and a pack of hounds that does tliis should be reduced 
in size. The old English harrier, therefore, is greatly in favour 
with this school, which claims that the true gospel of hare hunt- 
ing is to enable the game to work all her shifts and arts at dodg- 
ing and circling and doubling. These hounds are from twelve 



208 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

to fifteen inches — larger or smaller — according to the country 
to be hunted over; the speed of the hounds depending some- 
what on their size. Fifteen or even eighteen inch harriers 
might be no faster in a country where there was much land 
under cultivation than twelve inch harriers in a level pasture 
and meadow country. 

The hounds of the new school are much faster. They are 
mostly cross-bred dogs between harriers and foxhounds, where- 
in the harrier blood is retained for its more melodious voice 
and freedom of tongue, while the foxhound blood is looked to 
for greater pace. These hounds range from fifteen to sixteen 
inches. 

Then again there is what might be called the High Church 
branch of the new school, where the hounds are out and 
out pure-bred foxhounds — undersized drafts from foxhound 
packs. These hounds being so much faster than the old 
English harriers, put their game to flight, and as the old school 
hunters say, race her to death in a run of fifteen to twenty 
minutes without giving her a chance to practise her arts of 
self-preservation. Then they go on kilHng as many more as 
they can in a day. This the old school denounces as taking 
an undue advantage of puss, and can not be looked upon as 
thoroughly sportsmanlike. Hounds for this class of hunting 
we believe are from eighteen to twenty-two inches. 

It has been the writer's good fortune to study the game 
from the standpoint of both the old school and the new, and 
he unhesitatingly casts his lot with the former. Although 
no one enjoys a smart gallop cross country better, he loves 
best of all the hunting part of the game. 

To sit a nicely mannered horse, or stout pony with a bit of 
a gallop in liim, with a few jumps to negotiate now and again, 
to keep in the same field vnth the chase and to watch both the 
pursued and the pursuers, to be in possession of the tricks puss 
is playing on the hounds, and the secret of her hiding place, to 



TJie Chase of the Hare 209 

watch the hounds unravel her line, see them outgeneralled here 
and fooled there, as the artful game intended they should be — 
is, to the writer's mind, one of the most fascinating games that 
can possibly be seen in any form of the chase against any 
animal that lives. 

Game and hound meet on fair and equal terms, for in the 
old school practice, no one thinks of giving away the secrets 
of puss to the hounds, but leaves them quite to themselves as 
long as they will hunt. Lifting hounds to a view may be jus- 
tified towards the end of a long day with foot beagles or foot 
harriers. 

To lift hounds on, and keep racing a hare until overtaken 
by speed, seems to the writer to be neither hunting nor cours- 
ing, but a cross-bred or mongrel sport between the two. 

Of course, with the old school there is not much chance of 
a gallop of any length, for the constant circling and doubling 
of the hare often brings the game to an end in the same field 
where it began; so that a man on a stout cob that can go a 
good pace, is able to see much more of the game than the 
best mounted rider to foxhounds. The writer by no means 
wishes to impeach from the list of true sportsmen all hare 
hunters of the riding class. Their salvation comes not from 
the methods they pursue so much as the results. 

Fast harriers — like fast foxhounds after fox — although they 
often have a kill in fifteen or twenty minutes, lose so many 
hares for the very reason they are so fast, that they cannot 
be called butchers, as some are inclined to say they are. Never- 
theless, racing a hare to death is not hunting. The writer 
believes too much of the spirit of the chase is sacrificed in these 
days to pace. 

The object of the chase in these latter days is not to kill 
hares and foxes so much as it is to presery/e the time honoured 
customs and conditions of the chase as they have been handed 
down to us from our forefathers. Its most laudable object is 



\ 



210 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

to preserve untarnished the highest ideals of true sport and 
sportsmanship. 

An advantage of hare hunting is that it is not nearly so 
expensive a luxury as foxhunting, and is particularly enjoyable 
for men past the prime of life, who no longer delight in the 
more rigorous adventures of the chase of the fox. In other 
words, it lets us down to our graves more gently, and is thus 
well adapted to the latter stage of a sportsman's career in the 
saddle. 

"As a lad he hunts with foot beagles, 

As a boy with otterhounds. 

As a young man with the harriers. 

Then to foxhunting he may turn in the days of his highest 
ambition and bodily vigour, 

Afterwards to enjoy the downward slope of life, still out- 
riding death in the saddle, in the chase of the hare." 

Long live the Chase! 

There is another system of hare hunting, i. e., foot harriers 
— which the High Churchmen, so to speak, of the old school, 
claim is the only way to hunt a hare. Hounds for this pur- 
pose are of course still smaller or at least slower than the old 
English harriers. They are usually a cross between a harrier 
and a beagle, from say fifteen to eighteen inches. 

There are some popular packs of these foot harriers in EfUg- 
land. It is believed to be the most ancient form of the chase 
of the hare. There are some very old packs of foot harriers, 
especially in East Sussex, says H. A. Brayden, in his charm- 
ing work, "Hare Hunting and Harriers." 

"A man must be an exceedingly good pedestrian, and in 
the very best of trim, to keep within hail of a pack of hounds 
standing eighteen or nineteen inches in height, and blessed with 
plenty of pace." He says the packs of foot harriers in Great 
Britain "do not number more than a dozen." 



The Chase of the Hare 211 

"There are," says the same authority, "one hundred and 
ninety-eight packs of harriers in the United Kingdom, some 
fifty odd packs of foot beagles, which in round numbers make 
about two hundred and fifty packs, mostly in England, besides 
a large number of private packs which would probably swell 
the number to three hundred or more." 

It is not the purpose of these chapters to go into the scien- 
tific part of hare hunting, nor to pursue the subject further 
than might interest the general reader, and give an idea of the 
character and status of the game, which will no doubt be of 
interest to most American sportsmen. 

The writer's wish to see the sport more generally adopted 
in America leads him to devote another chapter to the subject, 
especially hare hunting with foot beagles at school and col- 
lege, which is the best way of all to bring up a boy in the way 
he should go, to become a thorough sportsman. 



''Happy the mam, who with unusual speed. 
Can pass his fellows and with pleasure view 
The struggling pack; how in the rapid course 
Alternated they preside, and jostly, push 
To guide the dubious scent/" 

Somervile. 

XIX 

FOOT BEAGLES 

SCHOOL AND COLLEGE FOOT BEAGLES THE DELAPRE HALL 

BEAGLES — A DAY WITH AN OXFORD COLLEGE '^CRY'^ COM- 
PARISON OF ENGLISH AND AMERICAN COLLEGE SPORTS. 

T T UNTING the hare on foot with beagles has always been 
^ ^ in great favour in Great Britain. Beagle hounds are 
generally admitted to be a very ancient race of dogs, which 
the writer believes are of French origin. 

The foot beagles of Great Britain are largely owned in 
private packs and hunted as such, or in company with neigh- 
bouring beagles brought together for a day's sport. 

A pack or "Cry" of foot beagles is about the best school- 
ing a boy can have as a primary training to the science of hunt- 
ing with otter, fox or staghounds. 

Many a keen sportsman of a father has a pack of beagles 
for his sons and daughters to hunt with and he encourages 
them in it from the time they can run about. Before that 
they go out to see the fun from a baby carriage or in the arms 
of a sturdy English nurse or governess. 

There are also a few packs of Basset hounds there, that 



Foot Beagles 213 

are used in hunting the hare, but they are not, as a rule, satis- 
factory, being too slow. 

The Messrs. Cooper Bros., of Delapre Hall, Nottingham, 
formerly had a pack of Basset hounds. The writer had a day's, 
or rather part of a day's sport with this silver-tongued pack; 
they were very pretty and worked away on the line with great 
spirit and drive. Slow as they were, they gave the writer liis 
fill of it before the day was half over and settled his convic- 
tions that he was no longer a boy, even if he did feel that way 
when he started out with thirt3^-five or forty young men and 
maidens for a day with these hounds. 

Mr. Cooper has since written to say he has "given up 
Bassets and has now a fine pack of seventeen couple of thir- 
teen and a half inch beagles, which are giving great sport." 
The elder brother carries the horn wliile the two younger 
brothers are his whippers-in. These young men, with the 
assistance of a servant, look after the kennel management of 
their pack. 

Although, as intimated above, the writer had arrived at 
an age when following puss on foot is prohibited, he thinks 
it glorious sport and one that ought to be encouraged in every 
country school or college, where there are hares within reach. 

Some American schools and colleges have cross country 
teams, but these are for amateur sprinters. Paper chases 
have had a rage here and there and, in lieu of nothing better, 
should be encouraged, but the principal element of success, 
i. e., unflagging interest, wliich is wanting in these games, is 
abundantly supplied when out with a real pack of beagles in 
the chase of a real hare. 

Many of the schools of England, Hke Eton, and the col- 
leges, as at Cambridge and Oxford, have packs of foot beagles. 

In fact, there are three packs of foot beagles among the 
colleges at Oxford, i. e., Christ Church, Exeter, New College 
and Magdalene. 



214 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

The writer not having had the personal experience, begs to 
include a letter describing such a day's sport, which he received 
from his son, who at the time was taking a post-graduate 
course at Oxford and who, wliile there, hunted quite regularly 
with the New College-Magdalene "Cry." 

New College, 
Oxford, England. 
November, 1905. 
My Dear Father: 

You will certainly wish to know how we hunt 
the hare at Oxford. I can explain by telling of a glorious run 
to beagles we had this afternoon in the rolling country beyond 
Cumnor Place. These November days have a fascination in 
them that drives every undergraduate afield — some fellows 
in rowing togs to the Isis, others to "footer" and "rugger," 
some few to hunting and various field sports, and still others 
to beagling. A run in the open, over turf or through "plough", 
over ditches or thi'ough hedge, on foot after beagles, although 
not to be compared to a day's fox hunting in the dear old 
Genesee Valley, gives the body new life and the mind real joy. 

New College and Magdalene keep a pack of beagles 
between them, which hunt the hare hereabouts on Wednesdays 
and Saturdays thi'oughout each term, while the Master himself 
hunts the pack during the long "vac." at his home. The beagles 
are kennelled just outside the City and are looked after by a 
kennelman under the personal supervision of the INIaster. 

This was my first day at beagling. The nearest I have come 
to hunting since I came to Oxford is to take a few cracks out 
of my hunting crop, occasionally, just before turning in. 
This in hopes I may go on with the illusion in my dreams. So 
far, I have cracked and coaxed in vain. 

If I had a little more floor space and a bridle and a horn, 
I would doubtless rig up a dummy horse and display a few 



Foot Beagles 215 

pillows about the floor for hounds and go galloping away over 
hill and dale, tooting merrily and calling encouragement to 
Bluebell, Barmaid and Dexter. 

As it is, my scout winks and blinks as the lash goes indis- 
criminately about for a crack. He looks with patient for- 
bearance on my weakness, however, when I stand in the only 
available space I have and cry, "Speak to it, Barmaid! on. 
Workman, on, good dog." Crack! "Hark to Bluebell! hark 
to Bluebell! Rouse him, my beauties!" Crack! "Away with 
him, away with him!" etc. 

But the chase. Of that you shall hear presently, for we 
must first journey to the meet. With lunch scarcely over I 
hurry into my knickers and rush down Holywell Street to 
the corner of St. Catherine's Lane and the Broad. The New 
College brake had been awaiting two delinquents besides my- 
self and we three appearing had scarce time to clamber aboard, 
before we were wheeling away, bound for the open country. 
Aside from the fun of beagling, these country excursions are 
a treat; for though the Cornwall coast has its peculiar charm 
and the lake country its special attraction, yet the scenery 
round about Oxford has no superior in all England. From 
Magdalene College another brake has started bound for our 
destination. Still another from New College has preceded us, 
making three in all and about a dozen fellows to each. We are 
surely a lot of light-hearted, Hght-headed, college fellows out 
for a good time. A superannuated hedge cutter, moved by 
some sympathetic impulse, waved his hat in salutation as we 
clattered by. Children in legions scattered along our way, 
catching the contagious spirit, ran with us shouting in wild 
freedom till outdistanced. On we go, over the hill to Cumnor 
Place, passing the church suggestive of Amy Robsart and 
her churlish gaoler, Anthony Foster. Beyond Cumnor Place 
the country side becomes more and more interesting. 
An autumnal haze heightens the effect and gives to distance 



216 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

an enchantment of its own. Occasionally we pass between 
long rows of oaks, their branches interlocked above. On all 
sides the foliage is beginning to colour and all about there is 
a seeming preparation for winter. Pheasants, no longer able 
to hide their thieving in the corn, fly up at our approach and 
disaj)pear in covert. Squirrels, nettled at our rapid pace, take 
us on for a bit of a run from the tops of stone walls. From 
the rumble of the wheels and the jingle of the harness, from the 
clatter of the hoofs and the champing of the bits, comes the 
rhythm of that good old hunting verse — 

"We must all go a-hunting to-day." 

Some six miles from Oxford we pull up before a village 
inn — one of the real old-fashioned sort. A suave land- 
lord, full fifteen stone in weight, extended his hospitality from 
the tavern door. The beagle van had already arrived and the 
Master was greeting each hound by name, as the kennelman 
slipped them one by one to the ground. By this time the 
Magdalene brake wheeled in upon us, which completed our 
number. Then divesting ourselves of top coats and woollens, 
we clambered down some thirty strong into a rabble of 
beagles and curious townsfolk of all ages. Toot, toot from the 
Master's horn, a hurried consultation with the innkeeper, 
wherein he advises drawing Squire Buffer's turnip field; more 
tooting and hunting jargon, and we are off to catch a turnip 
thief if we can. Foremost walks the first whipper-in, restrain- 
ing with voice and hunting crop any beagle impatient to 
begin hunting on his own account. Following the first whip- 
per-in walks the Master surrounded by the pack or "cry", 
then comes the second whipper-in, and lastly, plain followers 
of the chase. Attached to this goodly company are some 
truant schoolboys, the town cripple hobbling upon a crutch 
and a wooden leg, and a good number of wives and maidens 
with shawls over their heads ; some old men, probably poachers 



Foot Beagles 217 

by profession, who would rather hunt than eat, fill up the 
group that has assembled to see us off. Moving along up the 
lane leading to Squire Buffer's, we turn to the left upon a 
grassy slope which drops gently away to a tributary of the 
river Isis. The adjoining field to the right is the Squire's 
turnip patch which we are to draw. This the Master proceeds 
to do. We follow, keeping well to the rear, ready however, 
to go away the instant puss is routed. When within some 
thirty paces of the turnips, a young hare springs away to our 
left down the slope. Toot, toot, from the Master and twenty 
silver-tongued beagles proclaim the good news for miles 
around. We race away towards the stream. Puss will doubt- 
less turn right or left to avoid the water. Not to the left, for a 
country huxter is holding the road on that side; then let us 
keep to the right and well to the rear for it is more likely he 
will circle back toward the turnip field. Tliis he did and was 
soon lost to view among the turnips. What a treat it was to 
watch the "Freshers", They have fairly gone the pace and 
would outstrip the beagles themselves were it not for being 
reproved by whippers-in, for in beagling, like hunting, some 
run to beagle, while others beagle to run. 

Puss had indeed played a trump card either from chance 
or instinct for as the pack ran in among the remnants of a 
turnip crop three splendid hares sprang away in opposite 
directions. Halt! The Master knows his business full well. 
Toot! toot! toot! The beagles whimper and coax to go on, 
but the Master is stern, the whippers-in turn the leading 
beagles smartly back and the whole procession comes to a 
check. The Master then lifts the pack to where the nearest 
hare has sprung away. The scent lies strong and beagles give 
tongue to it in chorus. Off again, whither who knows! In 
this uncertainty lies one of the charms of beaghng. This hare 
with a fling and bound scurries away down stream. He will 
turn under half a mile, but which way? To the right is the 



218 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

stream twisting on its way to the Isis, to the left is the lane 
with hedge-fences and each hedge flanked by a ditch. 

Those who fancy they know the game keep well up above 
the pack, to the left along the lane, towards which the hare 
is turning. Choosing this course, I had negotiated the 
hedge into the lane and flung the last bit of mud from my 
boots ; but in charging the hedge on the other side of the lane, 
I found myself fast in the wire, which tore my coat and still 
retains a patch of my knickers as a memento of the encounter. 
Meanwhile the hare has crossed the lane into a ploughed field 
and is making back in a wide circle towards the turnip patch. 
Beagles and wliippers-in were hard after and all coming my 
way. At my sudden appearance in breaking loose from the 
wire, the hare made a sharp turn, through the two hedge 
fences enclosing the lane, and raced away towards the stream 
below. Back I go through the lane hedges again. Puss sees 
the error and makes another try for the turnip field and might 
have succeeded had not the intervening hedge suddenly 
bristled with belated beagles who had been checked by a bit 
of wet ground. This was a facer, but Puss lost no time 
in a council of war. Standing on my vantage ground I saw 
him bound away down towards the stream. The water is cold, 
swift and from bank to bank appears to be some twenty-five 
feet in breadth. Surely the hare will not take to its icy cur- 
rent. No, indeed, but he does a trick fully as courageous. 
On he goes and in his splendid stride leaps the stream at a 
bound, landing well over on the farther side. Well jumped, 
my beauty! "Hold hard", cried some one, as a half dozen 
"Freshers" break through the hedge with a rush. 

"Hold hard, here come the hounds." 

Sure enough, beagles. Master and whippers-in come to full 
view, the beagles with noses to earth drive ahead with one strong 
instinct speeding them on after the flying hare. The Master 
and wliippers-in racing after, like myself, cast about for a 



Foot Beagles 219 

bridge. The highway crosses the stream some three hundred 
yards below. It is a long way, but a dry one and that settled it. 
I own to funking such a bath in November with a bridge in 
sight. A few moments later the beagles are swimming in 
mid-stream followed by the Master and whippers-in, who noth- 
ing daunted, plunged into the stream and are wading waist- 
deep to the opposite bank. The bridge crossed, we are lost to 
the pack; beagles and all have disappeared over the crest of 
the hill and not even a mellow note comes back to locate their 
whereabouts and cheer us on. Upon the crest of the hill how- 
ever, stands a shepherd, outlined against the sky, waving his 
arms in wild gesticulation. We soon come up to him, but 
excitement has run riot with his tongue, for his gibberish is 
quite unintelligible. 

There is something picturesque about the British *'navvy" 
when liis sporting blood is up. Picturesque in his soiled, ill- 
shaped and patched garb, his unkempt beard and native 
speech. Something truly unaccountable, in his wild enthu- 
siasm for field sports. The voice of a hound warms his blood 
to fervid heat. A wild desire to run and cheer on the labour- 
ing hounds possesses him. In liis disconnected speech and 
bright eyes one hears the voice and seems to be accosted by the 
fellow's early Saxon ancestors. The gist of his words, how- 
ever, was to this effect: 

"I just seed 'im 'ere, sir, just 'ere now, sir, goin' down 
behindt the 'edge. Thor now, look thor, sir, 'ear 'em, those be 
good music, sir." 

Presently the pack came to view, circling toward us. Evi- 
dently from their direction, the hare had again turned, bent 
upon doubling and recrossing the stream. Doubtless the 
shepherd with his frantic gestures had already turned the 
hare, for the beagles, first heading for the stream again, were 
now circling away in the opposite direction, toward a neighbour- 
ing chapel. Puss must now give in or outwit his pursuers. 



220 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

Trying the latter he circled circuitously this way and that, 
in and out, drawing continually toward the chapel. The 
pace was heart breaking with hedges, ditches, and a ploughed 
field before us. The beagles, however, are bracing to their 
work, and running silently. Sometliing in the scent tells them 
the chase is nearing an end and by some instinct in common we 
also feel it to be true. The chase now seems well in hand. Sud- 
denly the hare is viewed away, the beagles break loose their 
melody again and are gaining on the hare at every stride. A 
dozen paces more and the pack break out in short yelps of 
joy, as they race from scent to view. At this comes renewed 
strength to weary legs and we stride on with all our might. 
One more ditch, another hedge, over an iron picket on which 
one fellow is left hanging by his knickers, and we find our- 
selves in the chapel enclosure among mossy headstones and 
hoary yew trees. With a toot, toot, toot and whoop-hallo, the 
carcass is thrown high in the air to drop in the midst of twenty 
eager beagles, tumbling over each other in their eagerness 
to secure a share of the spoils. 

Meanwliile the sun had reached the west horizon and it 
was decided therefore to hunt no more that day, but to 
repair to the inn for tea. The inn lay three-quarters of a 
mile away and twilight had settled in before we reached the 
tavern door. On long tables within were tea, bread and jam. 
In less time than I can tell it, the boards were swept bare, our 
host distraught and a famine still raging. Meanwhile the bea- 
gles had been loaded, and our traps were now waiting before 
the tavern door. On leaving the inn, I chanced to pass the tap 
room. I fancy few such rooms in England have survived the 
modern notions of a correctly appointed bar-room. The floor 
was flagged and somewhat lower than the threshold. On three 
sides of the room casks were piled high one above the other 
to the ceiling. The latter was low and black with the smoke 
of three hundred years. Rough hewn beams furnished the 



Foot Beagles 221 

ceiling support and from one which spanned the centre, hung 
a dingy, battered, bronze lamp. Beneath was a table warped 
like a potato chip and around the table sat three of the natives 
imbibing. Chief of this clan was the sporting cripple 
above referred to, whom I overheard remark to his pal, " 'Ave 
been 'ere summers above fifty years and 'Ave niver afore 'card 
tell as 'ow an 'are jump the Weir Water." 

Said a loquacious sot in rejoinder: " 'Ave 'card my faather 
tell as 'ow 'e did." 

Whether it was the hare or the old fellow's sire, who per- 
formed this daring feat, I did not stop to inquire or whether 
indeed a hare had ever been known to jump the Weir Water 
before. By tliis time the affair has very likely possessed the 
whole village. No doubt all the wonderful feats of fifty years 
past will be aired in the discussion and the Squire, himself, 
will do well to settle the point before the villagers take sides. 

The journey back to Oxford was scarcely less interesting 
than our excursion out. There is the same steady rumble of 
wheels, the same jingle of harness and clatter of hoofs. On 
cresting the liill beyond Cumnor Place we were, nevertheless, 
glad to see the lights of Oxford near at hand. From any 
vantage ground Oxford appears well by day, bristling with 
spires and towers. At night, however, when only lights are 
seen, the mind runs back along English history to the earliest 
times, even before barefoot monks trudged this road, or before 
the days of King Alfred, who is said to have sown the seed 
that later brought forth the colleges. 

Englishmen have always been proud of Oxford and well 
they may be. Ever since those early days the flower of the 
Kingdom has journej^ed hither like pilgrims to Mecca. 

Think how for centuries the schoolboy on the incoming 
coach has first seen the object of his dreams. How his heart 
beats high at the sight which to him must have seemed the 
promise of a "new heaven and a new earth." 



222 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

There is little time for reverie, however, as the trap has 
already swung into St. Catherine's Lane and stopped. 

Each beagler hurries away to his own rooms as rapidly as 
tired legs will travel, in time to don togs of a better sort and at 
the stroke of seven o'clock sit down to dinner with his fellows 
in the grand old College Hall. 

Affectionately, 

Your Son. 

It is greatly to be regretted that, while we have plenty 
of athletics in our American schools and universities, we have 
very little sport. 

School and college athletics in America, in the writer's 
mind, are in a very lamentable condition. He speaks from an 
intimate acquaintance with one of the largest universities in 
this country, a university numbering over thirty-five hundred 
students. Yet all the athletics of this great institution are 
carried on by fewer than three hundred men or about one in 
every group of twelve. In the so-called major sports only such 
men as are able to demonstrate marked abihty in their fresh- 
man or sophomore years are wanted. Many try but few are 
chosen. Coaches have neither time nor inclination to bother 
with any except the very best. We hear a lot about college 
athletics, but "college athletics" are one thing, outdoor sports 
for sport's sake are another. 

In the American university above referred to, the under- 
graduates who do not qualify and go in for athletics are either 
not at all interested therein, or are content to look on, bet on 
the result or talk wise, like a lot of professional talent at a 
horse race. At Oxford, England, there are also about thirty- 
five hundred students. Every day throughout the collegiate 
year from two thousand to twenty-five hundred of that number 
are at their favourite outdoor sports the better part of each 
afternoon. The result of these two systems of teaching is 



Foot Beagles 223 

simply this: in America our men are old at forty and at fifty 
most of them have shot their bolt, made a pot of money or 
lost it, or both, and tumble into graves or sanitariums with 
half their allotted days unnumbered; wliile in England, the 
men who played at school and college as much or more than 
they studied are living on for twenty or thirty years after 
we are dead and forgotten. 

It must not be inferred from the unstinted praise of the 
writer for English methods of school and college field sports 
and the natural indulgence in the chase, that he is an Anglo- 
maniac. He is not. He hopes he is sportsman enough, how- 
ever, to take off his hat to any system better than our own 
wherever found. 

From all the talk that one hears about games at college, 
one unfamiliar with the number of studies prescribed for each 
undergraduate would think boys did little else except play. 
They tell of a farmer who wrote the dean of one university, 
to say that the boys there seemed to have a good time playing 
games but he would like to inquire how much the additional 
tuition would be if it included writing and spelling. 

Nevertheless, it is nothing short of a calamity that this lack 
of play at our schools and colleges is the case. As specimens 
of the free school and college book-crammed, the American 
youths ^vin, but as examples of finely developed manhood and 
womanhood, they are far below what they should be. As 
models of professional athletic training a few out of many 
shine supreme, but as animals, as a rule the majority are 
deficient. In these days of so-called advancement, we claim 
America leads the world. In mere money-getting, in mere 
book learning and professional coaching, she does. It is a 
lamentable fact, however, that too many of our children are 
growing up book-wise, body foolish and money mad. 

Let us look about us. Are we not developing a nervous, 
highly strung race of people, which shine and go like rockets 



224 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

while they are in transit, but, like the rockets also, die in the 
attempt ? 

Our boys and girls are forgetting how to play, the result 
must be in America as it has been in Spain and France, a 
nervous, excitable, hysterical race of effeminate men and 
women. 

Again at most American Colleges the men who are able to 
demonstrate professional ability in their freshman year are 
worked and coached to the utmost limit of their powers. There 
is no place for a boy who wishes to become proficient at row- 
ing, for instance, and who does not want to make a drudge 
and a slave of himself in order to keep his place. With every 
other school and college field game it is the same. As we said 
before, college athletics are not sport, they kill sport. 

So little do our boys and girls play that they are losing all 
taste for it, unless they can win. They cannot stand defeat, it 
breaks their hearts. Win or nothing. Chagrin, disgrace, 
mortification is the only reward for the second best. This is 
the greatest weakness in school and college sports in America 
to-day. 

What is needed most is some form of schooling that will not 
only grow thrifty, healthy animals with nerve, courage, health 
and endurance, but such as will inculcate that best of all Chris- 
tian virtues; i. e., living by the golden rule. Where and by 
what form of training can these things better be accomplished 
than an open-air play ground? Where and by what method 
can we better teach our children how to play fair and take 
defeat as well as victory, in a sportsmanlike manner? How, or 
by what process can we develop in our children a guarantee 
to health and long life, better than by that daily exercise in 
gentlemanly and womanly games of field sports, which store 
their systems with energy to carry them through the trials and 
cares of life to a ripe old age ? We delve and slave and deny our- 
selves many comforts to give our children the best training 



Foot Beagles 225 

for their minds that we can command, while the growth and 
training of their bodies are left almost entirely to chance. 

As a nation, we seem to lose sight of the fact that children 
are animals and as such should have our first consideration. 
The writer makes this plea for the growing boy and girl of 
America, that our schools and colleges let up on mind cram- 
ming and professional athletic training and teach them how to 
play, how to play fair, how to win and take defeat ; and that 
parents should insist upon it that such a training becomes a 
part of their children's education. 

To return to foot beagles, "Hunting," says the immortal 
Jorricks, "is the image of war without its guilt." It possesses 
qualifications that appeal to all thoroughly manly natures. It 
develops those qualities found in thoroughly masculine men;, 
that are most admired by thoroughly feminine women. 

Long live the chase! 



To Mr. Lindley Bott, 

First Whipper-in to the 
Essex Otterhounds. 

''Where a winding stream amid flowering mead 
Perpetual glides along and undermines 
The cavern's hank by tenacious roots 
Of hoary willows, arch'd {find) his gloomy retreat/' 

Somervile. 



XX 

OTTER HUNTING 

THE OTTER — NATURE OF THE GAME — THE OTTERHOUND — HIS 
GREAT COURAGE AND ENDURANCE. 

T^ OX hunting men who have never hunted with otterhounds 
■■■ generally look on the sport as something suitable only 
for school boys and girls to play at, during the summer season, 
when foxes are unwarrantable. They think, perhaps, it may 
do well enough as easy lessons for children in their first essay 
towards the science of fox hunting, or for the over zealous 
sporting blood of a Briton, who cannot afford to supply him- 
self with a mount. As to comparing the game with riding to 
hounds after the fox, the wild red deer, or even a drag, most 
hunting men would probably "cross themselves and pray to be 
forgiven for harbouring such blasphemous thoughts." The 
writer's preconceived ideas of the game were after the pre- 
vaihng notion, but he wants to say right here that he has been 
converted. He believes it is only fair to say that for anyone 
who loves to see hounds work and whose soul is tuned to hound 



Ottej' Hunting 227 

music; and for the men and women, too, who have the true 
hunting instinct in their blood, otter hunting takes second 
place to no other form of the chase. Whoever has followed 
the writer's experiences in the hunting fields so far may be 
surprised to hear him say he has never had a day to hounds 
that, for unflagging interest and hunting excitement, outranks 
the day's sport he had with the Essex otterhounds, which he 
is about to record in this chapter. How shall he go about it? 
How shall he find the words to set the picture before his 
readers with all its varied lights and shadows? 

As the otter in America is so little known except to 
trappers of the Hudson Bay country and other remote parts, 
he will need a letter of introduction to most Americans before 
they realise what an important personage he really is, and espe- 
cially, what it means to outwit and outgeneral him. 

George T. Underbill says, "The Otter is more nervous 
and fiercer than any other English beast of the chase"; Otto 
Paget says, "This sport, I think, offers more opportunities 
for displaying craft and resources than any other form of 
hunting"; to all of which the writer says "Amen!" 

There is probably less known about the otter than about 
any other wild animal. Natural History does little more than 
catalogue him. His history, as the biographers would say, 
"is shrouded in obscurity." Tliis, however, never worries the 
otter. He outranks all other game for shyness. He inhabits 
nearly every stream in Great Britain, but it is very rare, indeed, 
that one is ever seen, even by the most ardent fishermen or by 
the owner of the stream on which they are most numerous. No 
doubt he lives and thrives in hundreds of water courses in the 
States and Canada, where no one would expect to find him 
and when only a pack of otterhounds or a Hudson Bay 
trapper would locate him. Publicity is the one thing above all 
others the otter wishes to escape. In this, as in every other 
line, he is most successful. In build the otter resembles the 



228 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

weasel, to which family he belongs. He lives on land, but is 
especially at home in the water. His short legs make him a 
bit awkward on land, and it is in the water that the beautiful 
adaptation of his conformation to his habits and mode of pur- 
suing his game is most strikingly exhibited. He is long in body 
(from snout to tail, twenty-six to twenty-eight inches, from 
three feet to three and one half from tip to tip), but stands 
only about four or five inches high. He is provided with 
big web feet, and has a sleek coat of brownish fur that slips 
through the water as if it were greased, all of which enables 
him to dart about under water with the greatest ease and 
speed. He is Hthe and serpentine in his movements, assisted 
by a long stout tail which does duty as a rudder to steer him 
about, and as a propeller as well. He is armed with a very 
sharp set of teeth that are particularly adapted to holding 
their slippery game and from which none of the animals he 
preys upon need hope to escape. They are professional 
poachers by trade and artists in catching fish. Although a fish 
is shy, wary and quick, the otter can go it one better at every 
play, and generally wins. They won't mind my saying that 
although they have not the craft and cunning of a fox or the 
speed of the deer, still they are as artful and evasive as his 
Satanic ^lajesty. They can give even the shifty hare points 
in dodging, while no ghost or phantom can match them in the 
art of appearing and disappearing, and appearing again where 
least expected. For keeping hounds and followers guessing 
until they don't know their own names, they have, among 
animals, no equal. 

" 'Tis here: 'tis there: 'tis gone." 

As a family they are a roving band of gypsies. If one is 
here to-day it is a sure sign he will be somewhere else to-mor- 
row. They travel long distances at night, and sleep in a drain, 
w^hich they enter under water and follow to a convenient rest- 



Otter Hunting 229 

ing place above the water level. A favourite spot for them is 
a hoIlow^ willow-tree, and on one occasion the Essex Hunt had 
the pleasure of seeing one dive from the top of one into the 
stream below. When pursued they take to water. They can 
stay below the surface for six to eight minutes without coming 
up to breathe, and when they do come up it is only for an in- 
stant when they simply poke the end of their noses carefully 
out, hardly producing a ripple. They take a lot of finding as 
well as a lot of hunting. Without the hounds to follow the 
scent, as it rests above the water or floats down upon it, a Idll, 
even with spears, would be almost impossible. After hounds 
have bolted their otter and hunted him by swimming in the 
water, this is called hunting his wash. 

As to their domestic relations the otter, like the domestic 
dog, is believed to hold to the doctrine of free love, with no 
special season for courting or bringing forth their young. 
Madam Otter, hke the masculine members of the family, is 
possessed "of a roving turn of mind." Her domestic duties 
and family cares come upon her once or twice a year like 
house-cleaning and interfere somewhat with her natural habits 
of roaming. Twins and triplets usually come to bless this 
domestic relation and when the stork is especially good-natured 
and generous-minded, he leaves four, and sometimes even five, 
little cubs with Madam at a time. She frets a little over this 
enforced confinement perhaps, but she would not be happy 
without it. The "old man," at the first signs of trouble com- 
ing on, has an engagement in the next county. This deprives 
him of the privilege of sitting up nights with croupy children 
and other such domestic duties. Later on he may have a look 
in when passing, "but if he is at all impudent and inclined to 
boss or domineer over the children, out he goes, his hat is 
kicked into the stream after liim and the broomstick is set out- 
side to guard the door." 

These domestic quarrels, says the huntsman of the Essex 



230 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

Otterhounds, get hold of the old man's nerves; they jar him, 
and scolding is something he cannot abide. Therefore he 
never ventures in again until the family is grown or he finds 
the broomstick has been removed from before the door, which 
is taken as a sign of welcome by any gentleman otter passing 
that way, or, as the English say, who put the sign "apart- 
ments" in their windows at the seaside resorts, "We don't take 
roomers, but we might entertain a proposition to take respect- 
able 'paying guests.' " 

Like all poachers and rovers the otter leads an exciting and 
happy life. He has a keen eye for the largest fish in a stream 
and a special tooth for salmon trout. To be perfectly frank 
about it, the otter is a thief and is accordingly taken without 
compunction. He eats quantities of frogs and snails, and has 
been known to take ducks under water, and to kill young lambs. 
When he inhabits well stocked streams, he only troubles to cut 
a piece out of the shoulder of the largest trout and leaves the 
rest of the fish on the bank. His presence is often discovered 
in this way. 

"A jolly life the otter leads 

That lurks by Eden water; 
He has notlmig to do hut fish about 

And take his pick of the eels and trout 
That revel at dusk among the weeds. 

The dainty old thief of an otter J" 

He not only kills the trout but drives them to deeper 
streams beyond the reach of the fisherman's alluring flies. It 
is amusing, however, to hear some jealous otter hunters claim- 
ing the otter does not kill fish. This sounds like the over- 
jealous fox hunters who talk about foxes not killing chickens. 
The writer prefers to take the other view and to feel all the 
time when in pursuit of the game that a thief is before him 



Otter Hunting 231 

and that as one of a party of law and order men and women 
he is out in the name of retribution. It then becomes a pleasure 
to run the rascal down, and one can finally see him broken 
with rejoicing, especially when, as in England, the war is 
conducted in such a thoroughly sportsmanhke manner. The 
evasive rogue has been, thanks to the Master's intimate knowl- 
edge of his habits, outwitted and outgeneralled at his own 
game while the hounds have worked as hard to take him as 
he has to escape. Like the fox, also, he pursues his game 
by stealth, therefore he cannot complain if he in turn is also 
pursued. In this respect the otter and the fox make most 
ideal game. 

''So here's^ to the heast called the Otter, 
He's wily and canny, the Otter; 
No sport is more thrilling. 
No beast takes niore killing. 
Than the varmint that's known as the Otter." 

"The Otterhound," says the noted English authority 
Youat, "used to be (two hundred years ago) a mixed breed 
between a southern hound and a rough coated terrier, and in 
size and form between a terrier and a foxhound." We are also 
told they were formerly used for hunting the hare and were 
called Welsh harriers. 

The pure bred otterhound — for so he is now considered — 
is of a dull brownish colour resembling the Airedale, of 
whose blood he no doubt has a dash. This is also suggested by 
his indomitable will, his wiry coat, the carriage of his head, etc. 
He has a deep melodious voice and lets it go with great free- 
dom. 

One trouble in breeding otterhounds is that the otter 
season is on at the time the hounds cannot be spared for breed- 
ing purposes. Most packs used for otter hunting are, there- 



232 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

fore, largely draft foxhounds and a lighter hound known as 
Welsh hounds, which are not unlike our own so-called Ameri- 
can hounds. Most packs have several couples of old foxhounds, 
as it has been proved that while they take to the water, although 
not as free in giving tongue, they are considered more reliable. 
Foxhounds take very readily to otter hunting after they have 
been once well blooded to the game and will seldom leave it 
for any other trail, even that of the fox. There are in Great 
Britain some twenty odd packs of hounds devoted especially 
to otter hunting. The country of an otter hunt extends over 
considerable territory. The hounds are moved from county 
to county, spending a few days or a week hunting the neigh- 
bouring streams. In fact, they are about as shifty as the otter 
himself. 

]Most packs contain from fifteen to twenty-five couples, 
about half of the number coming out for a day's hunt. 

The otterhound, as bred to perfection in England at the 
present time, is a bold, resolute and most hardy animal, and 
while not as active as the English foxhound or harrier, his grit 
and endurance are wonderful. He must be in icy cold water 
for hours at a time, at least in the beginning of the season, and 
when he comes upon his game, it's a life or death grapple with 
one of the fiercest fighters that is known, for the otter is quick 
as a fish and his powerful jaws and sharp teeth make his bite 
something for a hound to remember. 

The otterhound, therefore, needs to be, as he is, one of the 
most ferocious of dogs. Once he goes into a fight it is to the 
death— like the otter, he never quits while there is a breath of 
life in his body. He fights to kill; in this respect he takes 
second place to none, not even the bulldog. The latter, when 
once a hold is secured, simply hangs on wherever the hold may 
l)e, but an otterhound bites and fights to kill. This ferocious 
temper, we are told, makes it dangerous to attempt to keep 
many of them in the same kennel, as they are apt to fight 




HUNTSMAN LEADING THE PACK 





" 

.'-t 


H i||w||B 








^^^rr—-^^^-^^ — ••^«™'»JI|I!J 



THE ESSEX OTTERHOUNDS 



otter Hunting 233 

among themselves from sheer love of combat. When once a 
row is started they all join in and are said never to quit as 
long as two hounds can stand up and fight. We are also 
told of several attempts to keep packs of pure otterhounds 
together, but their fighting propensities have discouraged the 
most ardent fanciers of the breed. For this reason, we believe, 
most packs are largely made up of foxhounds. The otter- 
hound, Hke the otter, seems particularly adapted to the work 
he has to perform. He is provided with a strong coat of rough 
wire hair which seems capable of resisting cold. For, although 
he is much in the icy water, when heated with exertion, he is 
more exempt from rheumatics and other kennel ailments than 
any other hound. His face and muzzle are guarded by a pro- 
fusion of long wiry "whisker" hairs that gives him a devil-may- 
care look that in no way belies liim, and is a point greatly 
admired by fanciers of the breed. Whatever his origin, he is 
naturally adapted to the chase of the otter. Many generations 
of use for special purposes have undoubtedly helped to 
strengthen and perpetuate the particular characteristics of the 
breed, which, aided by an Englishman's eye and natural gift 
for breeding for improvement, has produced an almost ideal 
animal for the work he has to perform. In grit, courage, 
endurance and fighting propensities, he has no superior, per- 
haps no equal, in the canine family. He needs all these accom- 
phshments and a good stock of each to draw from, when it 
comes to the chase of a beast that takes so much arduous hunt- 
ing to find, and so much fighting courage to kill, when found, 
as the otter. It must be said, however, the fighting character- 
istics of the otterhound, above referred to-, are not so notice- 
able with the Essex hounds as one might be led to think from 
the above. Mr. Lindley Bott of Chelmsford, whipper-in to 
this pack, assures the writer the pure-bred otterhounds in their 
pack, which are about one in three, are not given to fighting 
more than the others. The Essex men have found that a cross 



234 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

between otter and foxhound makes a most reliable and good 
working hound. They retain the mode of the otter and the 
keen scenting qualities of the foxhound. 

"Headlong he leaps into the flood, his mouth 
Loud op'ning spends amain, and his wide throat 
Swells ev'ry note with joy" 



"From shore to shore they swim, while clamour loud 
And wild uproar torments the troubled flood." 

Somervile. 

XXI 

A DAY WITH THE ESSEX OTTERHOUNDS 

THE MEET — THE TERRIERS — HOUND MUSIC A GREAT DAY^S 

SPORT LOVE-MAKING HOW ENGLISH SPORTSMEN ARE AC- 
COUNTED FOR — TALLY-HO-OTTER THE OBLIGING MILLERS. 

npHE meet of the Essex hounds, previously referred to, was 
-■■ at Bishop's Hall Mill, Chelmsford, Essex, England. In 
company with Lindley Bott, first whipper-in, the writer went 
out, on the morning of July 4th, 1903, to witness and partici- 
pate in liis first otter hunt. 

A good number of brethren and disciples of the faith had 
already assembled; they were mostly young people, say from 
sixteen to thirty years of age, with occasionally an older sinner, 
say from forty to fifty, which latter age included the tenderfoot 
from America. Speaking of the tenderfoot reminds liim of a 
laughable incident that happened during this particular hunt. 
A follower asked the writer how he was enjoying himself. 
"First class," he replied, "although a tenderfoot at the game, 
I am enjoying it immensely." "Really," replied the native, 
looking down at the writer's shoes, "are your feet hurting you?" 
"Well, not exactly," and to let the native down easily as pos- 
sible, — "but they are getting a bit weary." 

Let us hark back to the meet. The masculine contingent 
were mostly dressed in flannel knickers with shirt and jacket 



236 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

to match, golf stockings and heavy shoes. Dark blue short- 
coats with white breeches was the dress for Master and whip- 
per-in. The ladies — bless their smiling faces — were dressed 
for the most part in short skirts of some homespun material 
that would stand grief, a blouse to match, stout shoes that 
laced up liigh, and head gear in variety, from a high theatre 
hat covered with posies, to a plain straw sailor. Some of the 
ladies wore the Hunt Club blue. All carried in their hand a 
straight, iron pointed staff, about six feet in length, a most 
useful instrument in negotiating fences, ditches, brooks, etc. 
Besides being very useful at times, it was like carrying a gun. 
It made you feel as if you were really going hunting. In olden 
times it was customary for the followers to use a spear on the 
otter whenever the opportunity offered, but this is not now- 
adays considered "good form" in sportsmanship, and the spear 
of former days is now carried as a staff like an Alj)ine stock. 

Hark! No! yes! 'tis the sweet, mellow note of a distant 
horn that announces the approach of hounds. 'Tis quite 
enough to set our blood going. Conversation comes to a stand- 
still; the story stops for want of a listener, and even the latest 
gossip comes to an end with, "Tell you the rest later on." 

Listen! 'Tis a sound that cheers you like the voice of your 
dearest friend. 

"Warrior! Warrior!" Crack! "Warrior!" It's only a 
whipper-in rating a hound, but it puts your heart in the right 
place without further ado, and your blood at a gallop in antici- 
pation of the pleasure that's coming. 

"Here they come!" 

Headed by three little wire-haired, go-as-you-please fox ter- 
riers, the huntsman, "Marching as for war," comes leading 
the pack around the bend of the road. 

There is nothing like hunting to shame a case of the blues. 
From now on we'll let the other fellow do the worrying. It 
beats whiskey for making you light-hearted, or opium for 



A Day With the Essex Otterhounds 237 

getting you past trouble, and care is as rattled at the note of 
a huntsman's horn as a girl at her lover's first call. 

Here they come, hard as nails every one of them. The fox- 
hounds come on with a grand stately air (the heavy artillery 
of the Command) ; the otterhounds look as if they would hold 
on like death (they are the infantry) ; then the lighter Welsh 
hounds (the cavalry contingent), full of endurance, speed, 
fire and dash. Finally the little wire-haired (old English 
bred white) terriers, three of them, with each particular hair 
standing by itself. They went as they pleased, and took upon 
themselves the welfare of the whole command. They barked 
at a small boy who only sat on a fence and looked at the 
hounds as they passed by and at a big traction engine for 
committing a similar offence. Chickens and farm dogs, how- 
ever, were beneath their notice. They drove a vile smelling 
motor car down the road in a hurry, and a rattling mowing^ 
macliine to the other side of the field. They went anywhere 
without let or hindrance, and acted as if they were it all the 
while. If a big foxhound jumped down a fourfoot bank into 
the stream, the little wire-haired threw himself headlong after. 
When the Master ralHed the hounds to the "drag" of an otter, 
the little brats were as likely as not in the very middle of the 
fray. 

The horn has sounded, and, headed by the Master, Mr. I. 
Rose, the skirmish begins. After a short turn down stream, 
the hounds return and all move on up water, the followers and 
hounds about equally divided on either bank with two whip- 
pers-in on one side of the stream, the Master with another 
whipper-in on the other side. 

Hounds were making good every inch of the way, some 
on land, some swimming along either bank, poking their 
sensitive noses in every recess likely to have harboured an 
otter. Up the stream for a mile or more go the followers, in 
single file along the narrow trails. Presently, an otterhound 



238 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

gives tongue under an overhanging clump of bushes on the 
right bank. Into the water rush the hounds from either shore, 
each one straining to obtain a nostril-full of the seductive 
scent. 'Twas a false report, or a drag so old as not to be con- 
sidered worth mentioning, and a hairy-faced otterhound. Sin- 
bad, who had so much to say about it, was reprimanded by the 
JMaster with "Now, then, Sinbad, hold your tongue." On we 
go for another forty rods ; meanwhile most of the hounds have 
clambered out and gone racing up the bank, shaking themselves 
free of water that flew in all directions like sparks from a pin- 
wheel. Some halted and braced themselves for this relief while 
others managed it as they went. They were never at all par- 
ticular where they shook themselves, and the ladies' dresses 
often took up a good shower like a sponge ; the grass, of course, 
was wet from their dripping, but the ladies paid not the slight- 
est heed to these shower-baths and marched on through the 
wet grass with no concern. 

Of course, there were fences to climb, ditches and brooks 
to be jumped or forded. As a rule, ladies are as awkward at 
fence climbing as a cow is at fiddling. Otter hunting ladies 
are the exception. They may be a little conscious of exhibit- 
ing a pair of big heavy shoes to the gentlemen following close 
beliind, but on they go, bold, resolute, and determined to keep 
their places in the ranks. They are for the most part dressed 
for their work and out for business and fun. Several, how- 
ever, exhibited a more feminine weakness by appearing in 
white skirts. They looked smart and clean at the meet, but 
they must have relied on first impressions to carry them 
through, for by the time they had been passed by three or four 
hounds shaking muddy water at them, and had climbed or 
crawled through a few fences that the leaders had made wet 
and muddy, they looked only fit for a wash-tub. Still they 
had a big picture hat left and on they went as brave and free, 
if not as stunning, as at first. Perhaps it was their first essay. 



f 




TRYING A LIKELY STREAM 




HELPING THE LADIES ACROSS 



A Day With the Essex Otterhounds 239 

— bless their weakness for adornment, — and they will know 
better next time. 

The staff is a great assistance, especially in vaulting fences. 
With one hand near the top of the staff, the other on the fence, 
one can go over a fairly liigh fence in an easy, graceful vault ; 
it is quite as indispensable for the ladies as for the men. It is 
a vaulting pole for jumping ditches, a steadying staff when 
stepping from stone to stone over shallow brooks, or a sound- 
ing pole in wading a stream. As we move up stream the chal- 
lenge becomes more frequent and more pronounced. Half of 
the pack are now owning to it with increasing clamour. They 
are working now with ever greater vigilance, until, presently, 
it becomes an almost unbroken song, the otterhound leading in 
depth of voice, the Welsh hound excelling in sweetness, and the 
foxhound in melody ; what a grand chorus ! Here from under 
a clump of overhanging bushes comes a burst of hound music 
followed by impatient whimperings, then charging on along the 
shore until once more the whole pack unites in one tumultuous 
roar that brings everyone running to the spot. Again the 
harmony swells to a climax and dies away, amid fault-finding 
mutterings and scoldings, disappointments, like the fading 
echo from distant hills. 

Thus the trail moves on with ever increasing interest. 
Halting, trying back, and again going forward. The hounds 
are now full of fire, and their dash and drive, through brambles 
and underbush, are something beautiful to see. And again, 
when some reliable hound swimming along, suddenly gives 
tongue, all the other hounds running along the bank, jump, or 
rather throw themselves heedlessly into the stream, three to 
five feet below. Splash, splash, three, four or five at a time, 
disappearing beneath the water, to reappear again, giving 
tongue to the scent as they come to the surface with a mouth- 
ful of water. Then again, when slipping backwards into the 
stream in attempting to climb out at some wet, slippery or 



240 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

yielding bank, "ding-dong" goes their tongue, as if they would 
sooner die in the attempt than neglect to proclaim the good 
news. Time and again some hound was thus seen going under 
with a flounder, then bravely coming to the surface just as 
another hound ahead of him lost his footing and fell upon him. 
Again he comes up like an otter, with more than half-drowned 
breath, to try again in a different place, only to repeat the fruit- 
less exertion. Such fortitude, such endurance, and amidst it 
all, such manifestations of joy. The joy of hunting. It was 
indeed a glorious sight! There is no form of hunting with 
hounds that begins to equal tliis for interest and excitement. 
Grand and inspiring as it was to the writer and most of the 
followers, a pretty little picture was enacted at this point, 
that showed there are still deeper feelings in human nature 
than are brought out in the most exciting moments of tliis 
most exciting chase. Seated on the opposite bank, along which 
a dozen or more hounds were swimming and giving tongue, 
were a sweetheart and her lover, oblivious alike to the "heavenly 
music" of the eager pack and the passers-by. In the midst 
of all they saw only each other, heard only each other. There 
is notliing strange or unnatural about this. It was the same 
old story, the interesting part of it was that it must have been 
the real tiling, for if an English youth and maiden can make 
love to each other oblivious of what was going on about them 
on such an occasion, their affection each for the other must 
have been "the pure quill." The writer wanted very much 
to take a snapshot of the pair, but it seemed too good to go 
into his wicked camera and he let it pass. All the world is in 
love with tliis sort and so it should be, for — Hold hard there, 
Author. Don't you hear the joyous cry of "Tally-ho otter" 
from twenty rods up water, and you are not there to see the 
first "view halloo." It serves you right, you will never make 
an otter hunter if you run riot at a bit of love-making. 

On rushes the crowd, nearly every hound taking to land 



A Day With the Essex Otterhounds 241 

that he may get on the faster. A few old rehable hounds, 
however, are taking their time, or are waiting the horn. They 
have learned that by the time you see an otter come to the 
surface, he's not there. The next time he shows himself he 
will probably be many rods either up water or down. 

The view Tally-ho was near a large elm tree that leaned 
far over the stream. It stood on the very brink of a perpen- 
dicular bank, which at this point was some four feet above the 
water. It was about the roots and bank beneath this tree 
that the hounds had gathered, two or three even climbing the 
slanting trunk for twenty feet or more, giving tongue as they 
went. Those in the water, if they had been growing more 
clamorous as the drag went on, were now at the very climax 
of rage and fury. Wliile the eagerness of the hounds for scent 
of fox and wild deer is very great, that of the otter seems to 
put them in a state little short of madness. The otterhounds- 
were particularly free of tongue, especially Gamester, who was 
many times corrected by the Master, for he loved too well to 
hear the notes of his own musical voice, which went clanging 
on when nearly all the other hounds had said their say. "Game- 
ster! Gamester! gently, more gently. Gamester!" calls the 
Master; then, with a half -stifled bay, the hound plunges on, 
muttering to himself. In the water at the roots there was a 
regular football scrimmage, while on the bank the little ter- 
riers were digging at a "holt" or "hover." When the fury of 
the onslaught had somewhat spent itself, the Master walked on 
up stream calling to the hounds, which reluctantly obeyed. 
Even then some of them kept returning to the tree until rated 
on by the whippers-in. From now on for the next forty rods, 
hound music ceased. This brought us to a grist mill. The 
Master tried for a little way above it and then we all returned 
to the leaning tree. Again the hounds proclaimed the find. 
This seemed to settle the question beyond a doubt. Then the 
Master cast back or down water for forty rods or more, work- 



242 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

ing slowly back again to the leaning tree. Then from the 
opposite bank he waded, waist deep, across the stream for a 
more critical examination of the bank under the tree. By prod- 
ding the bank under water a "holt" was discovered, and as 
digging was out of the question, owing to the roots, some one 
was dispatched to the mill below to ask the owner if he would 
draw off the water so as to lower the stream at tliis point, which 
was much too deep for successful otter hunting. The situation 
was also described to the sport-loving miller above this point, 
and straightway his mill ceased turning. 

For about an hour now, all hands gave themselves to rest, 
gossip, sandwiches, and tete-a-tetes, against cocks of new 
mown hay. Flirtations and love-making are not to be men- 
tioned. 

However, this is a good opportunity to look over the crowd. 
Of course, there were at the meet the usual number of truant 
boys from the telegraph office and shops, townspeople and their 
servants, farm and mill hands with their masters; all these, 
by virtue of an unwritten law, came out to see the meet start, 
followed, perhaps, for a field or two and returned to town and 
work. Nevertheless there were still on the battle field and in 
the thick of the fight, mothers with babes in their arms ; expect- 
ant mothers with children on foot; nurse girls with weanlings 
hanging to their hands and skirts ; there also was the governess 
with more sturdy lads and lasses from the hall, and a tutor 
with a couple of dull ones he was priming for college. The 
young doctor was there without his case and the curate without 
his Bible. Such, in addition to the regular members of the 
hunt, were the self-invited and very welcome contingent who 
were followers for the day. How can English boys and girls 
help being sportsmen when their mothers transmit to them, 
before they are born, the thrill of the chase with which their 
own blood is charged, and who feed it to them afterwards from 
the maternal fount as they sit on the banks of an otter stream, 




THE MASTER AND HIS PACK 




CATCHING THE SCENT 



A Day With the Essex Otterhounds 243 

(as we saw them that day), while hounds made "heavenly 
music" and the crowd were cheering them on? 

No, it is no longer a wonder that England is such a delight- 
ful country for sport, nor that her children are the best and 
keenest and most genuine sportsmen in the world. Their blood 
is charged with it, they take it with their food and the air they 
breathe is full of it. The writer has witnessed many interest- 
ing gatherings in the hunting field, but for singling out men 
and women with true sporting blood and for bringing up boys 
and girls in the way they should go to become genuine sports- 
men, otter hunting takes the lead. 

Hold hard there, Author, action begins: 

^'Once more the welkin rings, hounds, men, hills. 
Rocks and woods in full concert join." 

The self-appointed members and the whippers-in have sta- 
tioned themselves on either bank both above and below the holt 
to see that the evasive otter does not go away unnoticed. The 
Master wading across the stream, which is still nearly leg deep 
in the middle, makes another investigation. In one hand he 
carries his staff. In his arms, the three, wet, dirty, wire-haired 
terriers are squirming in their eagerness to reach the holt; 
meanwhile two or three followers go into the water about the 
tree to keep back the hounds and feel if they cannot see the 
artful otter if he swims past their legs under water. 

It was rare fun to see the courageous little terriers charge 
these holts, one on the bank, the other at the hole, which was 
formerly under water but now exposed. How they did make 
the mud and dirt fly in their frantic efforts to dig their way 
in; but the numerous roots prevented their entering much be- 
yond their length. Just as the Master had made up his mind 
to take off the terriers and resort to pick and shovel there was 
a great cry from twenty or more rods down stream ''Tally ho 



244 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

Otter, Tally ho Otter." Hounds and followers rushed along 
down stream to the view-halloo, then on further down to 
another view. Now came a long wait with much swimming 
and music from the hounds. Presently, from way up stream 
came another view, and this time some distance above the 
leaning tree, and so it went on for three whole hours, first up 
stream, then down, then back to the holt. By this time the 
followers were well strung out on either bank, for possibly 
forty rods above, and as far below the slanting tree. Now the 
jMaster cheers on the hounds and the game grows steadily in 
interest and excitement. Views are now becoming more fre- 
quent up stream, then down. Finally after a grand rally far 
up stream, in which direction the Master was always endeavour- 
ing to drive the enemy, on account of getting him into more 
shallow water, a dozen men followers go into the stream 
(standing side by side, forming a sort of fence to keep the 
otter from again going down stream) . The water here was 
about knee deep. From now on, the battle was a hand-to-hand 
engagement. The otter was coming more often to the surface 
to breathe, and excitement among followers and hounds was 
very great. Finally, the otter came up in re^ch of a hound 
called Regent, and such a struggle between beast and game I 
have never seen. The otter went under and the hound went 
with him and stayed with liim until he brought him to the sur- 
face. By this time the other hounds had gathered, and the 
death struggle began. The followers were cheering, hounds 
were furious, wliile the melee probably seemed greater than it 
was, owing to its being in the water. In the thickest of the 
melee the little wire-haired terriers were ever present. In grit 
and daring they were simply marvellous. Finally the Master 
succeeded in getting the otter by the tail, while others were 
engaged in whipping off the hounds, and when he pulled the 
otter from the water and handed him up the bank by the tail the 
two wire-hairs were hanging to the carcase like leeches, never 




THE KILL 










TERRIERS HANGING FROM OTTER 



A Day With the Essex Otterhounds 245 

letting go their hold until they were brought to the bank and 
their mouths were forced open by a staff. The trophies, mask, 
pads, pole, were presented to whomsoever the Master thought 
best, which included the writer, adding another highly prized 
trophy to his collection. 

A splendid lunch followed at a fine old manor house near 
by, and the writer, at least, votes his first day's experience after 
otter as one of the most interesting, most exciting day's sport 
he has ever experienced with hounds. 



To Capt. John Daly, 
Dublin, Ireland. 

"He was bred near Dublin City, 
Ay he can't go ifs a pity. 

And he walks just like a lady with her sweetheart at a ball: 
See him now so lightly treading 
Like a flea upon your bedding. 

Ah! He'll bear yer honour's scarlet through a run without a 
fall" 

Rhymes in Red» 
XXII 

FOX HUNTING IN IRELAND 

THE IRISH HUNTER HIS BREEDING AND SCHOOLING THE GREAT 

DUBLIN HORSE SHOW BUYING A HUNTER. 

A CHAPTER on Hunting in Ireland would be most in- 
'^~*- complete if it did not have a good deal to say of the 
Irish hunter. In repeated visits to the Emerald Isle, the 
writer has had the best of opportunities for studying the 
methods of horse breeding, feeding and schoohng that have 
evolved the Irish hunter and given him the enviable reputa- 
tion of being the best of his kind in the world. 

First and foremost among his natural advantages is the 
fact that he comes from a limestone soil, which is believed to 
account for his unusual growth of bone. Secondly, that he 
is nearly clean thoroughbred in breeding, which accounts for 
his perfect saddle conformation, and liis wonderful endurance 
distinguishing him in any hunting field in Great Britain above 
all others. As a rule, he is a rather plain looking horse with a 



Fox Hunting in Ireland 247 

large head and ragged hips ; while there is, occasionally, a real 
good looking one, the majority have little to boast of in that 
particular. His motto seems to be, handsome is that handsome 
does, and on that ground he shines supreme. His mother is 
generally seven-eighths, fifteen-sixteenths or thirty-one thirty- 
seconds thoroughbred, his cold blood coming through carty 
farm mares, to which he sometimes throws back in some one 
particular, perhaps such as in the feet or head. Sometimes he 
looks very carty behind and breedy in front, or vice versa, and 
sometimes he comes out nothing but a weedy thoroughbred; 
still these are the exception. As the American trotter is the 
best representative of the character of the American people 
who produced him, so too has the Irish hunter acquired a char- 
acter decidedly Irish. He is, in a word, a hght-hearted devil- 
may-care creature that is always ready for a harum-scarum 
cross-country racket, which he thoroughly enjoys. His heart 
is in the game from start to finish. What he can't jump, he 
crawls over or smashes through. He is just reckless enough to 
think notliing of himself, and heedless enough to go where he 
is sent, regardless of how or in what form he is to land. A 
cross-country lark suits him to perfection. He is, as the say- 
ing goes, "Seldom sick and never sorry." With such a char- 
acter it may be easily understood that the Irish hunter is a 
born cross-country horse to begin with. 

Now we come to his schooling. His mother and his 
"granny," as they say in Ireland, were themselves ridden to 
hounds by the Irish tenant farmers who owned them. They 
were mated in the spring, many of them before the hunting 
season was over, and hunted during the fore part of the fol- 
lowing autumn. Then they were turned to pasture, where 
they drop their foals the following spring. In many parts 
of Ireland the pasture lands were formerly small enclosures 
of from two to ten acres, and were divided one from the other 
by sod bank fences, or stone walls, which at the present time 



248 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

are as a rule, in a very dilapidated condition. The brood mare 
with a foal at foot can go from one enclosure to another at 
will. These old stone fences of course they jump. They 
jump on top of others and jump down again on the opposite 
side. If the top of the bank is wide enough, they stop there 
sometimes like a goat to pick what grass they can reach before 
they descend. Readers of "Cross Country with Horse and 
Hound" may recall the great importance the writer attaches 
to this early training of foals at foot. It was with 
pleasure, therefore, that he afterwards found in Ireland so 
much to corroborate his own ideas of the advantages thus 
gained. 

In the tumble-down wall country they jump the low fences 
or pick their way carefully over the tumbled down places. 
Then again on the rugged commons back from the sea there 
are ravines to climb out of, so that by the time a colt is two or 
three years old, what he doesn't know about getting over banks, 
stone walls and ditches is hardly worth mentioning. 

Hunters by breeding, hunters by instinct, hunters by 
natural training, not only do they know how to negotiate these 
fences but their natural habits have given them nerve and 
courage. They cannot see what is on the opposite side of a 
bank but, no matter, if they can get up on it there must be a 
way to get off it. 

So much for the soil, climate, breeding and natural sur- 
roundings that in every way help to develop an animal to the 
manner born. 

Now we come to the part played by the owner. First of 
all, the Irishman has the best of hands, and more horse sense 
than any other nationality the writer has ever met with. They 
have bred horses, thought horses and talked horses for so many 
generations that they have very keen horse instinct. In some 
parts they use principally a single rein bridle on a curb or 
Pelham bit. When a man has a seat so secure and hands so 



Fox Hunting in Ireland 249 

good as to break a colt with such a bit, he is not far from being 
an artist of the pigskin, and a horseman complete. 

The story of the development of the Irish hunter accounts 
for his coolness, boldness, light-heartedness, native wit, and 
wisdom. It accounts also for liis great will power, high temper 
and judgment. 

To these extraordinary combinations we may generally 
add, if Irish schooled he will have a light mouth with the best 
of manners. 

Wliile it must not be imagined this is a description of every 
Irish horse that is sold as such, they are the general character- 
istics that have won for the race the distinction, as above 
stated, of being the best of their kind. Still, after all has 
been said, the great Dublin Horse Show is quite a disappoint- 
ment so far as high class animals are concerned, at least the 
show of 1904 was decidedly so to the writer. Several reasons 
are assigned for this: — First, the war in South Africa is said 
to have taken away too many hunter-bred mares; second, 
English dealers have men scouring the country, picking up the 
plums as fast as they are ready for market; again, the princi- 
pal entries for the show are made from what is left and the 
cheaper grade of horses, entered with the object of selling them. 
The fair is, therefore, a sale fair quite as much as, if not more 
than, an exhibition. There were, in 1904, eleven hundred and 
fifty-six entries, most of them exhibited in the saddle classes, 
and at least fifty per cent of this great number were not 
hunters at all in conformation, but simply hacks and most of 
them harness types, pure and simple. So much of this sort 
lends suspicion as to their being Irish-bred. Many of them 
looked decidedly Yankee. At least, one could chop off the 
tails and pull the manes of five hundred grade trotting bred 
horses in the States, and make the same inconsistent show of 
saddle horses that was seen in about one third of the animals 
at the Dublin Horse Show. The truth is, the Irish breeders 



250 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

have been parting too freely with the goose that lays the golden 
eggy and to keep up the supply, we fear they have fallen into 
evil ways. There are a great many very high class animals 
to be seen at the Dublin show and, with the weedy hacks and 
harness types thrown out, it is still the greatest show of the 
kind in the world, and ought to be included in the sights worth 
seeing by every American visitor, who happens to be in Great 
Britain at the time. Nevertheless, barring mere numbers, 
there are more high class hunters to be seen at the great York- 
shire show in England than in Dublin. 

Not the least amusing part of an American's experience 
in Ireland will be the buying of a hunter, especially if he goes 
as a stranger among some of the breeders, or smaller "Job- 
masters," as the dealers are called. 

We were well advised in this respect before we started out. 
We cannot do better, perhaps, in bringing this chapter to a 
close, than repeat in substance sufficient of the horse talk that 
usually accom23anies such a sale. 

"Can she jump?" "Is it leap that ye mean, faith and a 
house would not stop her if ye have the courage to put her 
at it." "What's her breeding?" "Is it a pedigi'ee that yer 
wanting?" "Yes, bedad, she has and two of them. Her father 
was by Erin Gabrah and he's got a pedigree that long a book 
couldn't hold it." "And his dam?" "Yes, and that's what 
I'm telling ye, his dam was the best mare in Ireland, won no 
end of races, so she did, and her father and mother before 
her, since the days of the ark." "Did she come over in the 
ark?" "Faith, if any horse ever did, it was her or her father. 
Have a lad up, or try her yerself for a turn about the pasture. 
A child of three years could ride her and a silk thread would 
never break for the holding of her and yer couldn't make her 
do wrong to save yer soul." The mare was saddled, and it was 
evident she had little or no experience at all ; in fact, she was 
but four past, and in all probability had not been ridden a 



Fox Hunting in Ireland 251 

dozen times in her life. "Quietest mare in the world," 
said the owner, as the mare was led up to be mounted, "not 
a trick or vice, and never was sick or sorry since she was 
foaled." 

The mare proved, as we expected, thoroughly green but 
she seemed to have the making of a good one. 

"How much?" "And is it the price o' her that yer asking? 
Faith I'm thinking o' keeping her for the Dublin show, she'll 
win first prize there to be sure ; come away and don't be tempt- 
ing me with money." 

"What do you ask for her?" "Oh, now ye haven't the heart 
to be coaxing the Hkes o' that away from me. She's the best 
mare in Ireland, and she cost me a clean hundred guineas and 
was the cheapest mare at the money I ever bought. But yer 
a dacent sort, so yer are, and a good judge of horseflesh. Make 
me an offer and if I can live by it and have a bit of corn for 
my pig» ye shall have her." "Eighty pounds." "Eighty 
pounds ! why, man dear, yer only joking! Eighty pounds, and 
her with a pedigree the length of a yardstick. Make it a hun- 
dred and you can have her. No! Well, now don't be hard, 
say ninety-five; there now, I can't say more, can I? Shure 
and yer not going away without the mare, call it ninety pounds 
and have finished with it. She'll bring me two hundred at the 
Dublin show the week after next. Wait a minute, sure man, 
yer not going away without giving me the pleasure of drink- 
ing to yer health. Now then, come along in and don't be shy 
of a bit of good Irish whiskey. Plain water or soda? Soda, 
right you are, and now sure, man, ye'U not be leaving the best 
mare in Ireland. Make it ninety guineas. No! bedad, I'll 
say pounds just to please you. It's a bargain, do you say? No, 
well I know yer a man of rare sense and a good judge, make it 
the ninety pounds and I'll put in a good halter and a rug, so 
Twill. Eighty-five, is that your very best? Ah! There's my 
hand, she's yours. Faith and ye are a lucky man. No ! Well, 



252 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

won't ye give any more ? Well, man dear, make it guineas for 
luck and she's yours." And so it was settled, eighty guineas. 

'^A high price is paid for that winsome mare. 
The farmer seems pleaded with the day. 
And on his way home he is heard to declare. 
He'll buy a new dress for his missis to wear. 
And take her to town to the play." 

The difficulty in buying an Irish hunter in England is 
first, the very high price that is asked and received for the 
best, and secondly, English hunters, even if Irish bred, that 
have been hunted at all in England are, for that very reason, 
quite disqualified for hunting in America. English fences 
are invariably hedges, ninety-five per cent of English cross 
country riders shun timber as they would the ways of Satan. 

Horses hunted in England invariably brush through the 
tops of hedge fences. When they go to America and try 
the same trick on the stiff posts, and rail and rider fences, they 
come to grief. A horse is such a slave to habit, he can seldom 
be relied upon to overcome one thoroughly. 

It is far better in buying English or Irish bred horses for 
hunting in America to buy them unbroken. 

If a schooled hunter is required, they had better come from 
the stone wall countries of Ireland, where they learn to jump 
clear. 



There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip, 

Afid many a fall in the field; 
But there's many a gallop that follows a trip. 

And many a wound that's healed. 

XXIII 
A DAY WITH THE MEATH HOUNDS 

TIPPERARY DIFFICULTIES ON THE WAY AN EXCITING DRIVE 

THE MEET IN AN IRISH BOG — A COUPLE OF LOST SOULS. 

TT'S fixed and as slick as a lick of paint," said Captain 
'^ Daly, "you are to ride to Tipperary. So be into your 
hunting clothes when the cock crows at six ; give your mind to 
ease, for I'll be there to fetch you." 

The writer remonstrated, for Tipperary was the Captain's 
favourite mare. Stories of her wonderful jumping, staying 
qualities, and speed had reached him a month before, in 
England, where a friend had said, "If the Captain gives you 
a mount on Tipperary, you will surely have the day of your 
life." 

The writer remonstrated against taking such a horse, but 
the Captain dismissed it with, "Come now, don't disappoint 
me. I'm to ride Colonel So and So's horse. The Colonel is 
laid up, but wants his horse to go out, so he'll not be so far 
above himself when he wants him again." 

The next morning the Captain drove up in an Irish "Jaunt- 
ing car" and we went "nipping along" to the station, right 
smart. A game or two of nap on the train made the time pass 
quickly. 



254 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

"Lord save us, — here we are!" cried the Captain, looking 
out of the window, and there was a husthng for coats as the 
train was already at a halt. The Captain stopped to give 
directions to the stable boy where to bring our horses. There 
was but one cab left waiting at the station, and that a han- 
som into which a man had already entered. Nothing daunted, 
up rushes the Captain to inquire if the stranger was going to 
the meet and if we could ride. "Come in," said the man with- 
out more ado and away we went. It seemed this particular 
gentleman was a little overstocked with Irish malt. He wore 
a dress suit and was just getting home from an "all night," 
as he called it, with the boys. We drove smartly on until 
the Captain looked out and said, "Where the devil are we 
going?" "To my house," said our host, "to take lunch with 
me." "But we do not want to go to your house, we want to go 
to the meet." "Why didn't you mention it sooner?" said our 
host, who, seated in the middle, began poking his umbrella 
up in front as a signal for the driver to stop. "Now we are 
in a fix," said the Captain. "We are going the wrong way 
altogether, man, we'll be late to the meet." 

"Drive us to the meet," said our host to the cabby. "I'll 
see you safely there, gentlemen," said he. As the cab 
straightened out in the opposite direction, our host began quilt- 
ing the old nag on the broad sides with his umbrella as if he 
were beating a carpet. 

"Give yourselves rest to your minds, gentlemen, I'll stay 
with you to the death." Whack! goes the umbrella, but after a 
time our horse, who had been doing his best for some time, 
failed to respond. Our host then proceeded to stab him with 
the ferrule end of his umbrella. This touched a new spot and 
we went away at renewed speed with roars of laughter. As 
we went along in tliis noisy fashion all the curs turned in to yelp 
and cheer our progress. This encouraged our host, and he 
jabbed again, but, instead of answering to the thrust by going 



A Day With the Meath Hounds 255 

ahead, the old nag resented this prod at the roots of his tail, 
his fore feet stopped going ahead, while his hind feet went for 
the umbrella. In an instant two bright horse shoes came 
straight through the dashboard and stopped only within an 
inch of our obliging host's nose. The umbrella was a wreck, 
and we were all in a shower of splinters, for the dashboard was 
in kindling wood. 

Cabby pulled up short and our host began to swear and take 
on at the loss of his umbrella. Cabby's view of what had been 
going on had been hidden by the top. He reined up to the 
side of the road, jumped down, and began to apologise. "I 
never knew that horse to do such a tiling before," said he, "I 
am awful sorry, sir." "He won't do it again," said the Cap- 
tain. "So hurry along, my man, and there'll be an extra half- 
crown to you if you get us at the meet in time." Our host was 
for prodding the old nag some more, but the Captain inter- 
fered. "Who is paying for this game?" inquired our host. "I 
am," replied the Captain. "Not much, didn't I invite you 
to ride with me?" and it looked as if a row was in 
pickle, but the Captain headed it off with a call to the 
driver to "Stop at the first 'Wetting-up place,' " where the 
troubled waters subsided. While this went on the Captain 
had spoken privately to the barmaid. Then he himself took 
a drink out to cabby. He whispered to the writer on his 
return to jump in the cab. Hardly was the latter seated, when 
after him bolted the Captain. Away went cabby, leaving 
our host standing at the bar with another drink coming. 

"How did you manage?" "Oh! I told the barmaid to keep 
him there, that cabby would come back for him. I gave a tip 
to cabby when I brought him his grog. Holy smoke!" broke 
off the Captain, "but wasn't that a close call? The umbrella 
just saved our friend from getting it full in the face. So that 
is settled but, confound it, we are late." As luck would have 
it the riders came our way and last of all came Tipperary and 



256 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

the Captain's mount, and we were soon in the saddles. On a 
rise of ground a httle beyond were a hundred or more peasants, 
men, women and children, every one armed with a shillal}^ or 
something to shy at the fox. By this time, we had worked our 
way well to the front and the hounds entering a bit of second 
growth timber, three or four acres, almost instantly began to 
show signs of giving tongue. "Look sharp," cried the Captain, 
"we'll be off in a minute, and whatever you do, for heaven's 
sake, keep out of the bogs. If you get into one once you go 
plum to China before you touch bottom. Have no fear of 
Tipperary, give a roar at her and there is not a bank in Ireland 
to stop her." 

Hark! "A tally-ho-gone away," from the other side of the 
bush. Tipperary was held, facing a thicket, to keep her quiet 
as possible, till the hounds gave tongue. Such a roaring and 
hollering as went up from the foot people when the "gone 
away" was heard by them — you would have thought each one 
had a fox of his own to cheer. No fox ever left a covert any- 
where in the world with such a delirious mob to put him on 
foot. 

The Master began hollering "Hold hard! hold hard!" but 
only one man obeyed and he was the Yankee, a tenderfoot to 
the game as it is played in Ireland. "Pay no attention to him," 
shouted the Captain, "he was born hollering." That is what 
Tipperary thought also, for, unable to withstand restraint any 
longer, she stood straight up in her tracks and began clawing 
the air with her fore feet like a pantomime actor climbing a 
rope. Presently, she came down to the earth again, her head 
still facing the thicket, when another great roar went up from 
the foot people, the hounds gave tongue, and with a mighty 
spring,Tipperary jumped straight into the thicket. This was 
so unexpected the rider was nearly dislodged. 

The delirium of the moment was upon her, go she would 
and go she did, straight through the underbrush in the most 



A Day With the Meath Hounds 257 

direct way of reaching hounds. She said, as plainly as lan- 
guage could speak, "Please yourself, sir, but brush, or no brush, 
I am going." 

If the first jump into the thicket scratched the writer's 
eyes out, the next one scratched them in again. His white hunt- 
ing breeches were green from bumping against moss-covered 
saplings, his hat came off, the hat cord parted company with 
it, his face was scratched and bleeding from a dozen wounds. 
On went Tipperary through the brush to the river bank, where 
the water was only knee deep, and she cantered straight 
through it, but it sobered her some before she gained the 
opposite bank, at least, her uncontrollable effervescence had 
found a vent, like steam from a safety valve, and had reduced 
the pressure to the safety point, and we arrived at the first 
check on the best of terms. 

"Look as if you had been fighting with cats," said the 
Captain when we came together. "Where is your hat?" "I 
don't know, and that's not all, wherever it is, there it may 
stay. That Tipperary didn't jump out of her skin at such 
a racket shows she is hide bound. She jumped me out of a 
good portion of mine, as you see by my face and you will find 
it hanging on some blackthorn bushes on the other side of 
the river near my hat. Go find my hat and miss this run? — 
not for a hundred such hats ; besides it is where the bushes are 
so thick a bird could not fly through them. Don't ask me how 
I came to be in there, I'll tell all about it when we get home.'^ 

We were soon off again, and the Captain kept the writer 
in sight for the next few fields, where he finally cut loose for 
himself. The run seemed to be a succession of short dashes 
and checks, dismounting only to mount again and be off, 
which reminds us of the Irishman, who was taken to task for 
making too long a report of a railway wreck. If brevity is 
really the soul of wit, here it is in his next report — "No. Eight 
off again; on again; gone again. Finnegan." 



258 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

We were "off again and on again and gone again." Rider 
and mount had just settled down to a smart hard gallop and 
were both enjoying the exhilarating sea air as we drove through 
it in the ecstasy of the chase. 

The writer had discovered one thing, that while Tipperary 
was a model of a hunter in many respects, she had a weakness, 
and that was the strength of her will. When she proceeded 
to take matters into her own hands and decided for herself, to 
say she had a mind of her own is putting it very mildly. We 
were sailing along like a yacht to a heeling breeze, with about 
all the sail she can comfortably carry. We were in the wake 
of a woman riding a grey hunter, but when about to overtake 
her it was discovered that Tipperary and the rider had dis- 
tinctly contrary views about slowing down. For some reason 
the grey or its rider had a particular attraction for Tipper- 
ary. When it came to slowing up a bit as we approached 
a bank, for fear of getting too close and jumping on to the 
fair rider, should she come to grief on the opposite side of the 
bank, Tipperary would have none of it. 

The lady and the grey were on the best of terms — a couple 
of sportsmen who knew each other and the country. Tip- 
perary would not slacken and when she was asked to turn to the 
right her head answered to the pull but her body was still steer- 
ing straight for the grey. A big bank was before us and this 
must not go on, so hitting Tipperary a clip with the hunting 
crop seemed the only thing to do to drive her to the right and 
past, or at least alongside, the grey. Answering to tliis touch 
of the crop, she veered to the right and leaped upon the bank 
like the flight of a frightened stag, touching the top lightly 
with each foot to insure her balance, but "Saints and Ministers 
of grace defend us!" — the drop landed us in a narrow lane. 
Another bank faced Tipperary as high as herself, but she 
never hesitated or wavered. 

She landed in the lane on all four feet, and as if her legs 



A Day With the Meath Hounds 259 

were springs, or as if she were jumping from the end of a 
spring board, she arose again in the air, hghting airily on the 
top of the next bank, then dropping into the next field with the 
greatest of ease. 

The difficulty was then apparent ; the grey had been head- 
ing for a part of the fence easily jumpable, which landed in 
the corner of the next field where there was no lane. Tipper- 
ary evidently knew this corner, and was making for it, and 
might have followed the grey and no harm come of it. The 
Captain, no doubt, would have taken the risk, knowing a sure- 
footed horse was before him and that Tipperary never made 
a mistake. Well, there we were in the field of ploughed land, 
and there was nothing to do but jump back into the lane, stop 
there and go out through the gate in the end of it, into the 
field where the lady and the grey had gone. The return jump 
was also against Tipperary 's judgment, her idea being to go 
on after hounds, and she seemed to argue that if she could 
jump into a field she could jump out of it again, and to turn 
back was only a waste of time. Three times she refused to 
jump the bank back into the lane. 

"Give a roar at her," cried an Irish labourer, "give a roar at 
her." So at it we went again, but a roar from the rider was like- 
wise ineffectual. Then out came three labourers into the field, 
one stood behind, one on each side, and with hands full of soil 
from one, a shillaly from another, and a roar and swinging of 
arms from all three, Tipperary scrambled up the bank and 
there she stopped. Then taking matters into her own hands 
again, walked a few steps along the top and let herself easily 
down into the lane. The gate was locked, but the labourers 
lifted it from its hinges, opened it wrong end to, and after 
receiving a suitable reward, sent us off again with a cheer. 

There are some days when trouble won't be pacified with 
one or two attempts to do us. This was the writer's day. We 
were "on again and off again," when the first thing the writer 



260 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

knew, Tipperary was taking the last stride that would land her 
into a bog. O lord and Tipperary, the Captain's favourite 
horse and — "Whatever you do," he said, "For Heaven's sake 
keep out of the bog. You will never touch bottom until you 
land in China." 

Whatever would happen? What a flood of things go 
through the mind, visions of sinking, sinking, that horrible 
death, or at best being pulled out by ropes and tackle, while 
you listen to all the uncomplimentary remarks of the natives 
concerning the tenderfoot's dilemma. And the Captain — it 
seemed as if it would be easier to sink at once and die rather 
than to see him looking on such a scene from the bank. For- 
tunately, the bog was only about ten or twelve feet across. 
Hope that came Mke a straw to a drowning man, said "The 
footing might hold." But it was not to be. Tipperary saw 
what was coming, and braced herself for the plunge. Into it 
she went leg deep and stopped. When Tipperary went down, 
the awful consequences of such a death-trap swept the writer's 
brain clear of thoughts. Instinct and self-preservation were 
alone in command. The writer takes no credit to himself for 
the actions that directed his course. There was no time to 
think, self-preservation did it all. As the noble beast settled in 
the black trap the writer threw himself headlong forward, so 
as to land sprawling on all fours, rather than on his feet, and 
well to the right of the struggling mount, as the best possible 
position to avoid sinking himself. In this position he wriggled 
and scrambled along to the opposite bank (rather to solid 
ground, for this bog hole was all on the level) , keeping as much 
of his body touching the surface as possible. Tipperary, leg 
deep in the awful trap, was floundering after. 

By tugging at the bridle the writer was able to help Tip- 
perary a little. His companion, with his hunting crop hooked 
into the breast strap, also helped. Finally, with a most desper- 
ate effort Tipperary gained solid footing for her fore feet and 



A Day With the Meath Hounds 261 

the next struggle brought her out. While Tipperary had a 
few moments in which to recover herself, the companion, with 
hands full of grass, rubbed off the thickest of the muck from the 
writer's clothes with the remark, "I could do a better job with 
a shovel and a hoe." 

Never in the writer's life was he more supremely thank- 
ful than when he saw the noble beast making headway and 
hkely to come out in safety. 

As a rule, horses in a predicament of any nature make one 
or two struggles and quit, but there is no such word as "quit" 
in the vocabulary of an Irish hunter, for his breeding will pull 
him through where most others fail, and so it did in this case. 
Only one other gentleman saw this unfortunate affair ; he alone, 
followed the writer's foolish lead. He was just far enough 
behind to pull hard to the left and get past the bog on fairly 
good footing. The other riders were lost to view by an inter- 
vening growth of bushes. 

One can hardly imagine what the writer looked like; hat- 
less, his face scratched, his stock all blood, and his clothes, at 
least the front half, as black and greasy as the treacherous 
muck could make them. 

Fortunately, there was a dry seat for the saddle and we 
mounted; one of us a sadder, a wiser, but above all, the most 
thankful man in Ireland. 

A few questions and answers showed that neither his com- 
panion nor the writer knew his way, but we finally came into an 
open field, next to a "Tater" patch, where a man, whom we 
first mistook for a scarecrow, shouted something at us. At 
this we inquired, "Have you seen anything of the hounds?" 
"Is it the dogs that ye mane, faith and I did, there were hun- 
dreds of thim and them's a-roaring." 

"Which way have they gone ?" First our informant pointed 
in one direction, then in the opposite. This we took to mean 
that the hounds had turned back in the direction we came from. 



262 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

"How long since they passed?" we inquired. "Yesterday morn- 
ing," came the quick reply. "Come over here," shouted the 
friend, holding up a flask as a sign that we meant no harm. 
"Now see here, we are strangers here, this gentleman got hung 
up in the bog, we wish (meanwliile exhibiting the contents 
of the flask to the best advantage) you would put us right on 
the highway, and when you do, we will be pleased to have you 
drink to our health." "Faith and I will, yer honour." At this 
our informant dropped his hoe where he stood and started. 
Then he began to ask questions. "Where did ye come from?" 
And it turned out that neither of us knew beyond the fact that 
we came from Dublin by train, got off at some station or other, 
and drove somewhere or other, to some meet or other. "Holy 
Bridget, but sure ye are a couple of lost souls if ye don't know 
where ye came from, where ye have been, or where ye be now, 
and whereat ye be striving to fitch to. May the saints be with 
ye! for it is not me that can tell ye." 

Our health had been drunk, each separately, so as to give 
fno offence. Soon after we reached the highway, we met 
some riders M^ho put us right. Thus one trouble after another 
came to an end, including the finding of the Captain who was 
probably worrjdng about his dear old Tipperary and liis lost 
Yankee friend. 



iTo James Howie, 

Kilmarnock, Scotland. 

"Tally ho! See tJie pack how they fly to his cry, 
A crash through the woodland resounds. 
The farmer's ''view halloa" goes up to the sky. 
He marks the good fox with a wink of his eye. 
And a smile for the clustering hounds" 

Poems in Pink. 

XXIV 
FOX HUNTING IN SCOTLAND 

A DAY WITH FARMER MCDOUGAL A BIT OF SCOTCH HUMOUR 

WEE MCDOUGAL A FEW SCOTCH STORIES TOO LATE FOR 

THE MEET — THE RACE OF HIS LIFE BONNIE SCOTLAND 

FOREVER. 

"DONNIE SCOTLAND— who has ever been to Scotland, 
"*-^ and does not love it, and not only the country but the 
Scotch people? 

Rural England is one of the most beautiful countries in 
the world, but there is something about Scotland, that the 
writer likes even better. It might be hard to define what it is, 
perhaps it is the brown purple moor, the brawling burns, or 
because it is less artificial and more as nature finished and fur- 
nished it. 

It has been the writer's good fortune to visit Scotland many 
times during the last fifteen years. The country, the scenery, 
the climate and the people seem to suit him and fit him as if 
it were liis own native land. 



264 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

A few days' grouse shooting over the brown purple moors 
in August and September and a few days' deer stalking in 
October is enough to give Scotland such a character as few 
other countries possess, but that is in pickle for some future 
time, that may bring to light Glorious Days With Guide and 
Gun. For the present, at least, we will content ourselves with 
a day's run to the Earl of Eglinton's hounds — fifty couple 
hunting the Ayreshire country four days a week. 

James McDougal is the nom-de-plume of a very prosperous 
Scotch tenant farmer, and noted breeder of Ayreshire cattle, 
living near Kilmarnock. It is at his hospitable board we are to 
stay the night, and with a bonnie start the morn, pay a visit 
to several other noted breeders on the way to the meet of the 
Eglinton hounds. 

The first thing to strike one's attention, on entering the 
parlour, is the great array of challenge cups and other trophies, 
awarded Mr. McDougal for liis skill in the breeding of cattle. 
In this department of agriculture our friend is an artist. 

After a cup of tea and several varieties of Scotch scones 
have gone the way, with a relish, our friend, who is himself 
impatient to be with liis red and white beauties, says : 

"Maybe when ye ha' finished with yer tea, yer would no 
mind a wee look roond among the beasties. Dinna ye mind the 
fifty pound challenge cup in the corner? Aye, well it is no all 
mine, till I win it once more; twice I have brought it hame 
from the Highland show, and it's been here noo sa lang a'm 
thinking ma Missis would no like to see it removed. Perhaps 
ye could say when ye see the coo a'm sending to win it fa good 
and a', what yer thinking o' ma chances of pleasing the missis." 

Arriving at the stables, our host leads out a string of the 
most perfectly formed dairy cattle to be found in Scotland, 
which is to say they are the best and most perfect dairy cattle 
in the world. McDougal had for months been fitting these 
particular animals for the great "Highland" show. They were 



Fox Hunting in Scotland 265 

as clean as soap and water could make them. Their horns and 
hoofs were polished and oiled. The hair had been chpped from 
the neck, the better to display the beautiful way it sat upon the 
shoulders. The hair along the back had been parted and 
flattened by a brush and comb; they were, indeed, the most 
beautiful and most perfect lot that can be imagined. 

Our host is a great "free kirk" man and we Hke to touch 
him on the subject occasionally just to tap his humour, if 
notliing more. So we remark at last when our adjectives have 
given out over the cattle, "You free kirk Scotchmen have 
a lot to answer for ; the good book says we must not covet and 
here you keep leading out one magnificent beast after another, 
while for every one a black mark goes down in the big 
book against me for coveting it. Now what do you say to 
that?" 

"A dinna ken but a'm thinldng," he repHed, in a slow and 
solemn way befitting so grave a subject. "A dinna ken but 
a'm thinking, ye will find there's a wee note on the margin of 
the book saying ye had sufficient cause." 

The cows being duly examined and admired, we return to 
the house to talk "Coo" and hear the history of the winning or 
losing of the cups. 

Paintings and photographs, representing noted bulls and 
champion cows, cover the walls, and make material to talk 
about after honest folks should be in bed. 

The programme for to-morrow is that we are to drive to 
the meet in a two-wheeled cart, while William, the manservant, 
on a "fell" hill-pony, leads our hunters on to Glencliff moor, 
some twelve miles away. 

Breakfast over, we go to the stable yard to inspect our 
mounts. Master Thomas McDougal, aged seven, and Jamie, 
his wee brother, are there ahead of us, the former up on one of 
the hunters, walking him about. 

"Whatever are ye up to noo, ma wee mannie?" called the 



266 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

delighted father to Master Thomas, "Ye must no be riding 
King Arthur, the morn, for he must gae away o'er the Glen- 
cliff Moor and 'tis a long road, an ye must nae weary him." 
"Paw," interrupted the wee Jamie, "Canna a no ride the ither 
horse aboot the yards, a would no make him run?" "Indeed 
would ye no, ma brave mannie, and what for would ye be riding 
him then?" inquires the indulgent father, loath to say no, 
until he had his son's reasons for wanting to ride. 

"A canna let Tammy say he's the better o' me, paw. A'U 
no fall off." This proved a knock-down argument and up 
goes the wee Jamie, the father fixing the reins in his well-soiled 
hands, and his feet in the stirrup irons, the leathers being 
crossed over to the opposite side to accommodate his short 
legs. 

"A'U gie ye ane turn aboot the yard," said the father, "and 
na mair; we must awa." 

The big Irish hunter, Kildare, who has been rattling his bits 
to quiet his impatience, seems to quite understand what is 
needed and with arched neck and demure stride walks around 
the straw yard, the father holding him well in hand, telling his 
hopeful to "Sit ye straight, so Kildare will no be ashamed of 
3'e and wish for yir brither." 

"Noo come away doon, ma brave mannie," said the indul- 
gent father when the circle of the yard had been completed, "yir 
mither'll be ga prood o' ye the morn; run away noo and tell 
her what a bonnie laddie ye are for riding Kildare." But the 
youngster had not far to go, for just by the stable yard corner 
stood the smiling mother, who to hide her own pleasure said 
to her husband, "Ah, James, ha ye na more mind than to put 
the wee Jamie on Kildare!" and she shook her head as much as 
to say her husband was daft. 

By this time, Bess, the driving mare, was persuaded to go 
between the shafts of the two-wheeled cart, having explained 
to her the while, "Ye ha a lang journey afoor ye the day, ma 



Fox Hunting in Scotland 267 

lady, but we'll make a few calls and a doot na, ye'U be asked 
to have a wee taste o' corn sa ye'll na hunger." 

Finally, we are off, Master Thomas and his shadow, the wee 
Jamie, riding to the end of the lane ; the wee Jamie between his 
father's legs, takes the reins without question. "Ye'll no be 
late returning the night," calls the good wife after us, "supper 
be waiting ye at seven." Once more we wave adieu and the 
husband calls back, "Mind that William dinna forget to feed 
the wliite quey (heifer) in the middle box when he comes in 
at noon." 

Bess, practically driving herself, turns the corner a bit 
short, and the wheel scrapes the hedge in passing. "Ah, ma 
wee mannie, what for dinna ye go wider o' the corner ? Dinna 
ye ken that Bess would run ye into the hedge cause she's too 
lazy to go roound?" 

At the end of the lane Master Thomas and wee Jamie 
get down with "Noo then, ma brave laddies, ga away hame 
and, whatever ye do the day, ye'll no forget ta mind yer good 
mither, will ye noo?" "We'll na forget it, paw," answers the 
sturdy Thomas, as he takes wee Jamie by the hand, and 
McDougal's pride in his sons is plain to see. "Canna ay no 
ride King Arthur the morn, paw?" cries the wee Jamie, who 
thinks it a good time to close a bargain. "A dinna ken," replied 
the father, "but a'm thinking he'll be gae weary the morn. 
Mind yer mither and the next time King Arthur is saddled ye 
shall ha' a wee ride." 

We had not gone far when we came in sight of a grand old 
manor house on a rise of ground some distance back from the 
highway, an ideal place. The house itself and even its chim- 
ney were fairly smothered with vines. 

In the great pasture field, between the house and the high- 
way, were half a dozen hunters, brood mares and their foals. 
The great oak trees were busy with gossiping rooks ; the whole 
effect was one of contentment, peace and happiness. "If I 



268 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

owned a place like that," I remarked, "I should never want to 
leave it." "Indeed, mon," replied our host, "ye min'e have tae 
leave it; the man who lived there don't live there noo, he's 
dead." 

"Then we could not see him to-day if we should call?" 

"Na, a dinna ken but a'm thinking he is clumping the skies 
hunting a feller by the name o' Thomas." 

"How is that?" "Well," replies our host, "he was the 
squire o' the town, but, nevertheless, he took sick and had to 
dae and when it was talked aboot that he was gaein' to dae, a 
woman living fourteen miles awa' when she heard aboot it came 
in to see him. Her own good man Thomas, having gon awa' 
up some three month afoor, the good wife thought it would be 
a bonny chance if the squire was goin' to dae to send a word 
to her Thomas. When she came in to see him she said, 'A 
heard yer gaein' to dae.' 'So the doctor tells me,' said the squire. 
'Would ye mind taking a message to ma Thomas what's gone 
awa' up yon?' 'Well,' said the squire, 'what is it?' 'Till him, 
said the woman, 'the bairns are going to school and the garten 
is growing fine, and we have a newy pair of shafts in the 
wagon ; and till him we ha' some newy little pigs and the quey 
(heifer) has a bonny little calf also a quey,' and so she went 
on and on and finally, having made such a good account of 
everything, she closed by saying, 'and till him we'r gaein' on 
sare weel we'out him.' The squire cut her short at this, with 
'And think ye a'll ha' nithing to do, when I ga' up yon, 
than ga clumping (tramping) the skies, hunting yer Thomas?' 
The squire," added my host, "was a gruff old man and sort o' 
contrary like, always saying one thing and doing anither ; so a 
doot na he is noo clumping the skies hunting a feller by the 
name o' Thomas." 

Bess meanwhile, hearing a story going on, took advantage 
of it to slow down to a walk. "Noo ga awa', lass," said our 
host, in a voice intended to convey reproach, pulling back on 



Fox Hunting in Scotland 269 

the reins as a sign for Bess to go a little faster and added, 
"Yer no to be listening, lass, when ye hear talk o' yer neigh- 
bours." 

Presently, we come to the foot of a little hill and Bess 
comes to a full stop. "Ga awa' noo, yer no to be weary, canna 
ye no see the bonnie ricks (stacks) of James Donnon? A dinna 
ken but a'm tliinking ye'll be invited to ha' a wee taste of corn." 
Thus addressed and carefully persuaded by a light applica- 
tion of the whip, which for severity would hardly dislodge a 
fly, we "raise the hell" and come to a halt in Mr. Donnon's 
yard. I looked at my watch and called my conductor's atten- 
tion to the fact that time was flying and we were not over half 
way to the meet. Mr. Donnon came out and proceeded to 
take the mare from the cart (there is not a hitching post in 
all Scotland). "A'm thinking," said my conductor, "we ha' 
scant time for stopping. We would hke for a wee look among 
the coos. We'r awa' to Glencliff moor the day," added my 
host and then looking very serious, "for a fox they say ha' been 
stealing the widow McClure's chickens o' late and na doot the 
poor woman is grieving." "Ah!" cried Mr. Donnon, "what a 
tender heart ye ha' for the widow." "Aye," replied McDougal 
gaily, "but dinna ye mind that Dickens says 'Beware o' the 
widdy?' A'm no forgetting that, James." "Come awa' to the 
house for a wee taste," pleaded our host. "We're short for 
time," replied my conductor. "A can understand that," replied 
Mr. Donnon, "when ye ha' a widdy in yer heart, and a fox in 
yer mind, but ma missis will no think kind o' ye, McDougal, 
if ye dinna come in and say a word." 

That settled it, and with a look of resignation, and a mis- 
chievous smile on our host's face, we follow Mr. Donnon to 
the door, which the good wife opens before we can reach it, 
with a genuine Scotch welcome impossible to counterfeit. 

Like many of the farm houses in this part of Scotland, 
there is one large room and in the middle stands a long dining 



270 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

table to accommodate a large family. In one end of the room 
a spacious fireplace and oven where the cooking is done, the 
opposite end of the room being given up to two alcoves just 
long enough to accommodate two beds. These beds are about 
the height of a sixteen hand horse and are far more difficult 
to mount, but once located in the middle, one sinks below 
the horizon of feathers like a ship in the trough of mighty 
seas. 

On either side of the fireplace, are cupboards, invariably 
painted green. AVliile you are removing your coat, Madam, 
who has inquired after ^Irs. JNIcDougal and the "bairns" in gen- 
eral, then each one in particular, goes to a cupboard and takes 
out a snow}^ wliite table spread, unfolds it once or twice, sets 
out some bread and cheese, the right number of glasses and 
lastly a bottle of Walker's "JNIountain Dew." Donnon says 
grace, then we help ourselves to the bread and cheese, and a 
"wee taste," in which to drink to the health of the Donnons. 
This delightful hospitality given and received, it was then in 
order to retire to the stables for a look among the beasties. 
Time, however, was going on and we had several other calls 
to make on the way to the meet. 

Bess came from the stable smacking her lips over the last 
taste of corn and was once more persuaded that it was her 
duty as a good and faithful servant to go between the shafts. 

Our next stop was at one Mr. McFadden's and as that 
gentleman was expecting us he was on the lookout. It was but 
two miles from our last stopping place, but no matter, Bess 
must come from the shafts again, and the same Scotch hos- 
pitahty gone through with. Our host was a sandy-haired, side- 
whiskered, upstanding Scotchman with a Scotch plaid cap of 
the Thomas O'Shanter build, hght blue eyes, a red face, and a 
redder nose. "Come in, ]McDougal, sure and ye'll no be pass- 
ing wi' oot taking a wee drap." "Well noo," replied McDou- 
gal, "we just had a taste at your good neighbour's, Mr. Don- 



Fox Hunting in Scotland 271 

non's, we'r no feeling the need o' anither the noo." "Ah! man, 
and would ye taste with me neighbour and no ha' a drap wi 
me?" "Well noo, McFadden, we'r no hungert fa a taste our- 
selves, but if it will be giving yourself an excuse, na doot we 
ma accommodate ye." 

There was no dodging it, so in we go. Our host hastens 
matters a bit by sapng, "But I will tell you fair, McFadden, 
the time we give to the tasting we must take from the coos." 
When we had left JNIcFadden's our host turned to inquire. 
"Did ye no remark the Walker brand on our friend's nose?" 
"Is that from Walker's best?" I replied. "No," replied mine 
host, "that is just the trouble. A little good Scotch is good, a 
good deal of bad Scotch is hell, and a dinna ken but a'm think- 
ing our friend McFadden is going somewhat in that direction." 

Once more we journey on, but the next stop on the pro- 
gramme had to be omitted. 

Now for the meet. When we arrived there, hounds had 
already gone, and we had a good excuse for skipping another 
taste at the hunt breakfast, which Lord So-and-so had pro- 
vided. Bess, however, went into the stable for her taste of corn. 
We mounted our hunters, the groom waiting for Bess to do her 
fourth taste for the morning before he started her for home. 

Our host and the writer were of course in the usual agony 
that thrives on all late comers to the chase. We ride blindly 
on, perhaps opposite to the way hounds are going or the near- 
est point to reach them, galloping madly on for half a mile, 
then halting to listen, and galloj)ing as hard back again. 
Presently, it comes on to rain and we seek shelter under the lee 
of a hay stack and wait. How the minutes drag and our minds 
hurry. We are glad it rains. It gives us an excuse to stop 
tearing about on a wild goose chase. McDougal lights his 
pipe and tells a story: how when he was a lad, he came to the 
farmhouse where the hunt breakfast was held, to spend Sunday 
with a school mate. They were out on the lawn after dinner 



272 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

and he was whistling a new Scotch air, just to show his friend 
how it went, when out comes the mother and said, "Here you, 
laddies, come here ; noo ye may have a' the Scotch whiskey that 
ye will and ye may go wit the lasses o' a Sunday to your fill, 
but whistling on the Lord's day a'll na ha'." And this 
reminds McDougal of another one. A minister of the gospel, 
from America, occupied a pulpit of a church in Edinburgh one 
Sunday, and going for a walk on King Arthur's seat in the 
afternoon and not knowing the strict rule of the Free Kirk, 
was puckering his mouth to a church hymn, when a labourer 
accosted him with, "O ye are a sare bad man; if a had nane 
ye'd a whistle on the Lord's day I'd no coom to hear ye 
preach the morn." Still the rain swished past and we dis- 
mounted to lean against the stack for more complete shelter. 
McDougal, feeling chagrined at missing the meet, was blam- 
ing himself and the lazy Bess by turns. He thinks he is 
especially called upon to entertain his guest and keep him from 
going mad because of missing the meet and probably missing 
the chase altogether. "Can ye no see the hoose o' James 
McPherson who lives just yon by the foot o' the moor? Aye, 
when a wee laddie, the father of the present McPherson came 
late to school one day and the school mistress said to him, 'Ah ! 
Master McPherson, ye'r late again the morn, what excuse 
ha' ye this time, for a'm no liking to punish ye till aVe heard 
what ye ha' tae say for yourself.' 

" 'Please, mum, we had a wee lassie come to the house the 
morn.' 'Ah! indeed,' replied the school mistress, 'I suppose 
your father was very pleased?' 'Na,' replied youn' McPherson, 
'ma father knew naught aboot it, he was awa' in Edinburgh.' 
'Indeed!' 'Aye, and it was a good stroke that me mither was 
hame or there'd been no one aboot the hoose to welcome her, 
and — What?" broke off McDougal, springing to his feet, "did 
ye no catch the note o' a hound?" Placing his hand to his 
ear, "There's no mistake aboot it," he cried, "and see, both 



Fox Hunting in Scotland 273 

King Arthur and Kildare (who were also eagerly listening) 
are of the same opinion." 

Hurriedly mounting, we ride out for a better view, and 
just in time to catch sight of a travelling fox leaving a flock 
of sheep. What a sight! Every sheep with head up was 
watching with curious interest the bundle of fur rolling along 
over the crest of the hill. 

"That's him," cried McDougal, meaning he was the hunted 
fox. "Do ye no mind him dragging his brush as if he was 
aboot quitting tha job, and can ye no hear the hounds' music in 
the wood below? They'll be out in a wee." And we hurry on 
to the line over the crest of the hill, toward which point the 
fox was making. Meantime, hound music had ceased 
altogether, but hardly had we reached the point we were mak- 
ing for, when a hound came through the hedge from the wood 
below, struck the trail, and with a challenge that called every 
other hound to the line raced away towards the top of the 
hill where we were waiting. What a sight ! One hound after 
another joined in the chase and the "heavenly music" rose to 
one grand chorus that filled all the vale and came on the wind 
to us mingled with its own echo. On came the leading hounds, 
the sheep fleeing in all possible haste. Of course there was a 
check, as Reynard knew there would be when he sneaked 
through the flock. When the last hounds had come up with the 
leaders, who failed to pick up the line by their own cast for- 
ward, up stands the big McDougal high in his stirrups, swing- 
ing his hat and shouting, '^'Talla-ho-gan-awa! Tally-ho! 
Tally-ho-awa r 'Twas enough, on came the eager pack to 
his cheer, picking up the line as they raced each other to the 
crest of the hill. Then, in a pace that silenced their tongues, 
they drove on like a cavalry charge down the beautiful slope. 
There was not a single rider in sight. The swampy bottom 
land whence the pack came had probably stopped the field. 

For three miles the big-hearted McDougal, on the big- 



274 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

hearted King Arthur, led the way, hard after the pack, down 
the hill, through a narrow strip of covert out on to the open 
moor. Here we were joined by the huntsman and a whipper- 
in on fresh horses. There was a moment's check, and on again 
over the great open moor. What a gallop! Hi! hi! hi! On 
we went for another mile or so when finally JNIr. Reynard rolled 
over in the open and "his spirit," as the old biographers 
were fond of saying, "took its flight to that bourne from which 
no traveller has ever returned." 

What a lucky ending for such a disappointing beginning! 
The rain had ceased. The sun in patches here and there was 
sweeping over the great heather-covered hills, lingering now 
and again in a valley or loitering in a ravine, only to burst 
forth at greater speed over the rounded crest of a foothill; 
then to continue the chase after the shaft that preceded it, 
until lost in the misty atmosphere of the distant hills. 

The writer's pen is surely at a loss to describe the beauties 
of the moors as they broke upon us that day. Here and there 
a patch of fleecy white cloud, recently wrung dry of rain, was 
resting quietly in a dark ravine or again in the lee of an abrupt 
shoulder of a hill. These fleecy white patches suggested that 
the great mountains behind were waving on the chase of the 
clouds or was it the chase of the fox? 

Reader, have you ever seen the fells and mountains of 
Ronnie Scotland when the heather was in bloom? If so, you 
will surely say, with the writer, that it is one of the most beauti- 
ful sights in the world. If not, can you imagine thousands 
and tens of thousands of acres of moor, hill, ravine, and moun- 
tain, covered with a carpet of the richest brown and softest 
purple? Not a tree nor a shrub to break the evenness of the 
landscape — now and again little patches of the greenest grass, 
or a spot of black barren earth that rather adds to than de- 
tracts from the general effect. In the low lands the heather 
grows to a height of eighteen or twenty inches, which grad- 



Fox Hunting in Scotland 275 

ually lessens as you ascend to the clouds where the bleak winds 
keep it shingled short. Long or short, its purple blossoms lend 
colour to its own dark brown shrubbery, so that this wonderful 
carpet is seen in all the varying shades between brown and pur- 
ple, depending on the light and shadows or the angle of the 
hills and undulations as they meet the eye. Who can resist 
falling in love with Bonnie Scotland! 

Of course we were wet to the skin and twenty-one miles 
from home; but in all Scotland there were not two happier 
men than rode the distance through repeated rain storms, los- 
ing our way, but finally by climbing a sign post and striking 
matches to illuminate the arms, we were put right. Reaching 
the main road. King Arthur gave a neigh of delight, for he 
knew where he was. Mr. McDougal mistaking the meaning, 
remarked, "dinna ye be greeting (crying) laddie, yon are 
the lights o' Kilmarnock." 

We reached our destination quite fit for supper and the 
rather long night cap which Madam had in pickle for us. This 
we saw at a glance by the tea kettle simmering by the open 
grate fire. "Is it to your liking?" inquired the good housewife. 
"Splendid," we rephed, but McDougal in characteristic Scotch 
replied, "It's na too bad, it's a wee mite sweet, perhaps, but 
a'm thinking t'will do." Then looking slyly over the top of his 
steaming glass he adds, "A dinna ken but a'm thinking it 
might ha' been worse." 

We offered a toast to the health of all the McDougals — 
may their shadows never grow less ; to all the late comers at the 
meet — may they never lose heart ; to the foxes of the fells and 
the moor — may they ever continue to show hounds the way; 
and the Kilmarnock hunt — may it always have sport ; and last 
to mention, but first in our hearts, Bonnie Scotland forever. 



PART III 
HUNTING IN FRANCE 



To Baron de Dorlodot. 

"My ideal sportsman and gentleman true, 
A man of endurance and pluck. 
The best pigeon shot that all Europe can boast. 
In wild boar hunting he captures the most. 
While with foils he is ever in luck" 




BARON DE DORLODOT 



XXV 

HUNTING IN FRANCE 

THE NATURE OF THE GAME — BARON DE DORLODOT — THE KEN- 
NELS THE FOREST OF SENOUCHES. 

"C^ ROINI rude snares and drives into mire, on down through 
"■■ the age of the crudest weapons and the hand si^ear to 
the present day, the taking of the wild boar has been 
attended with great danger. The Hon is styled the King of 
beasts, but he is a coward in comparison with the wild boar. 
The wild boar, being a purely herbivorous animal, has no 
occasion to prey upon any other animal. Stealth is, therefore, 
to him an unknown quality. His fighting is always defensive 
and, as against his common enemies, the wolf and bear, he 
invariably came out ahead, therefore he has come to think of 
himself as the master of the universe. 

There is no animal, in the whole list of big game or small, 
that has such an exalted opinion of his own power and abihty^ 
to defend himself against all comers, as the wild boar. 

He is armed with great tusks in the lower jaw that are from 
four to six inches in length. The points of these mash or 
rasp against shorter tusks in the upper jaw that keep the 
points of the lower tusks as sharp as a knife. 

With these weapons, short handled although they are, he 
defends liimself and at quite a range. His agility is so marvel- 
lous that nothing can escape a gash that comes within his 
reach and his reach, when standing, covers a radius of five or six 
feet to right or left. He can charge ahead, or turn end for end, 
in a single spring. When fighting from a standstill, liis hind 



280 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

legs form the pivot of liis action. His shoulders are deep, 
heavy, and muscular, and carry at least two thirds of his 
weight. He is covered with a close fitting coat of wiry hair 
that protects the toughest of liides, like an armour plate on a 
man of war. 

During the reign of Louis XI, we are told, if not before, 
the chase of the wild boar was elevated to the sport of kings. 
The customs inaugurated by tliis sporting monarch have very 
generally been followed to the present day. Since then the 
sport has always attracted the nobility of the country, and 
although there are but few wild boar hunting establishments 
in France at the present time — owing to the scarcity of forests 
of sufficient size to attract the game — the few gentlemen who 
still carry it on, do so in a princely fashion, preserving, as 
far as practicable, the customs and usages of ye olden times. 

There are but a few places in France where the wild boar 
is hunted and these establishments are not hunt clubs as in 
England and America, where anyone is at liberty to join; but 
are private packs, under the exclusive management of certain 
wealthy, or titled gentlemen, who own the hounds and every- 
thing pertaining to the establishment; and who only welcome 
such people to the chase as the Master delights to honour. 

It was, therefore, with good old fashioned schoolboy delight 
that the writer received an invitation from the Baron de Dor- 
lodot to spend a week with himself and his family at his beauti- 
ful hunting retreat, in the heart of the great forest of Se- 
nouches. 

The Baron de Dorlodot is easily first among the great 
sportsmen of France. His name is everywhere known on the 
continent, and in England and America, as the champion 
pigeon shot of Europe. Among the prominent events that 
have fallen to his gun in pigeon shooting is the great Paris 
prize of 1868, offered by the Emperor Napoleon. At Monaco, 
in 1885, he won the twenty thousand franc prize and a cup 



Hunting in France 281 

valued at five thousand francs. He has also won many inter- 
national events at Monte Carlo, and other places in France. 
His crowning achievement was the winning of the grand prize 
and cup, the best prize in England, in 1899. He has also met 
many of our best American shots, in our own country and 
abroad. An idea of liis skill may be had from a single incident. 
On the opening day's shoot, in the Chateau de Vieusart, Bel- 
gium, he killed one hundred and two out of one hundred and 
three live partridges. At pistol shooting the Baron de Dor- 
lodot is considered invincible. "He is sure," says Le Sport 
Universal, "to hit a five cent piece, three times out of four, at 
thirt}^ paces, while at fencing he is so clever, supple and rapid 
of execution that even the professional swordsmen of France 
stand very much in awe of him." He is much devoted to yacht- 
ing. At one time he kept a racing stud, but a few unsports- 
manHke acts on the part of competitors disgusted him with the 
game and although he loves the horse, and especially the thor- 
oughbred, he prefers a pastime that calls for personal skill and 
exertion. 

In hunting the wild boar, the Baron de Dorlodot finds the 
one sport that above all others is best suited to his taste and 
wonderful ability. Wild boar hunting requires a man of the 
highest courage, the temper of steel, wonderful endurance, 
"stick-to-it-iveness," and an inborn love of the forest and the 
chase. During the thirty years the Baron de Dorlodot has been 
engaged in wild boar hunting, over one thousand wild boars 
have fallen to his skill. A great many hounds have been cheered 
on to their death by the Baron who, single handed, has come to 
their rescue, and with a short sword (blade about twenty 
inched), the infuriated boar has been sent to the land of his 
fathers. It is not at all an uncommon occurrence to have three 
or four dead hounds lying about the spot where the wild boar 
makes a stand, and as many more wounded, and sent yelping 
and flying in all directions. Many of the Baron's hounds, and 



282 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

several of his hunters, as well as the huntsmen and indomitable 
Baron himself, carry scars and cuts from the tusks of boars 
with which they have come in contact. 

Baron de Dorlodot's commodious hunting lodge is occu- 
pied by himself and his family, from November to April. It 
is partially new and partially the restored hunting castle of 
King Louis XIV, who formerly came there to hunt the wild 
stag. It is beautifully located and well adapted to the wants 
of the present owner and his broad hospitality. There are many 
boxes for hunters, buildings for carriages and automobiles, be- 
sides the very elaborate kennels, cooking rooms, and hospital 
for sick and injured hounds, breeding kennels, etc. 

The granite posts of the entrance gate to the grounds are 
surmounted by wild boars' heads in bronze, while the interior 
walls are decorated with trophies of the chase by the hundred. 
No less than thirty or more mounted wild boars' heads orna- 
ment the walls, and clusters of antlers decorate the ceilings of 
the hall and the spacious dining room. 

There are forty to fifty couples of working hounds at the 
kennels ; some are pure French bred hounds, some are half-bred, 
the rest English foxhounds. The latter are well adapted to wild 
boar hunting; having speed, endurance and courage. The 
French hound and half-bred, or French-English cross-bred 
hounds, have better noses and are decidedly better in giving 
tongue, which in these great forests should be as far reaching 
and as clamorous as possible. The hounds are marked with a 
number on the left and the initial "D" on their right side. 
These numbers and letters are made by clipping away the hair 
instead of branding, and are about four inches high. 

The Baron de Dorlodot's huntsman, Antoine, is the most 
noted huntsman in all France. He has grown old and grey 
in following the chase of the wild boar and has been for twenty- 
two years the premier piqueur to Baron de Dorlodot. His 
natural instinct serves him well and makes him past master in 



Hunting in France 283 

the art of locating the game. The joy on his face as he 
approaches his master, hat in hand, to inform him that he has 
located the kennel of a wild boar is a pleasure to see. The 
numerous hairbreadth escapes from death, and the ugly scars 
he exhibits on his legs, the result of personal encounters with 
infuriated boars, are something he may well smile at, as he 
fondly does, when he feels himself still alive and able to do duty 
in spite of them. 

The forest where this grand display of wild boar hunting 
takes place is well stocked with game, and contains many veter- 
ans that are big, strong and wicked. This is owing principally 
to the great abundance of beechnuts, acorns, and many other 
kinds of food that make the wild boars of the forest of Sen- 
ouches attain a larger size than any others in France. They 
are likewise the most courageous and desperate to encounter. 
They are great travellers, covering from twenty to thirty, and 
even fifty miles in a single night, so great is their natural dis- 
position to roam. 

It is needless to say, it requires a lot of training in wood- 
craft to outgeneral them, for when once on foot they have speed 
surpassed only by the deer and the fastest horses and are 
greatly superior to the former in endurance or staying quali- 
ties. Twenty to thirty and even forty miles, is no uncommon 
distance for a wild boar in the heyday of his vigour, to lead 
the chase before he succumbs. 

It may be seen from this that the hounds to follow him must 
be of the very best in speed and endurance. 

Not only does it require talent of the highest order in the 
huntsman and hounds, the best in courage, speed, endurance, 
and voice in the hound, but the Master, who directs the attack 
and plans the chase, must also possess as keen an instinct as his 
huntsman, and boldness, as great as a general in command, for 
his superior judgment must decide for both. 

Madame la Baronne de Dorlodot always follows the chase 



284 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

in her carriage, and knows the forest so well that she is always 
able to arrive in time to witness the final ceremonies of the 
game. 

The uniform for gentlemen is green, trimmed with gold 
lace, hunting breeches of green velvet with long white stockings 
coming nearly to the hips, high hunting boots, and a belt with 
hunting knife (a short sword with about twenty inches of 
blade). A carbine carried by the Master and one of his sons, 
is attached to the saddle. The cap is of green velvet. The hunt 
buttons are of gold with a wild boar's head in silver. 

The ladies wear a dress of green of the same shade as the 
men and similarly decorated and a three cornered hat of green, 
trimmed with gold lace. The uniforms are worn by such gentle- 
men only, as the Master has honoured by presenting them with 
a set of hunt buttons. This mark of distinction also entitles 
the wearer to carry a hunting horn and to take an active part 
in the chase. The wives of such gentlemen wear the colours 
and uniform as described for ladies, whether they follow the 
chase on horseback or by driving. 

The horn is of the style that is worn over the right shoulder 
and encircles the body, passing under the left arm, the tube 
passing nearly three times around the body. 

Before we proceed to show how the game is located and the 
chase itself is conducted, it will be necessary to know some- 
thing of the nature of the forest. 

Baron de Dorlodot owns some 30,000 acres of forest and 
rents the shooting and hunting privileges of about 10,000 acres 
more. 

The Forest of Senouches has, here and there, clearings, and 
the boar travels from one wood to another. The great diversity 
of the country lends animation to the sports. A large number 
of peasants are constantly employed in cutting off the timber. 
The system of forestry contemplates cutting over the whole 
tract in twenty-five years, that is to say, they begin on one side 



Hunting in France 



285 



of the forest and are twenty-five years cutting the timber from 
it, when there is twenty-five years growth to begin with again. 
The clearings thus made take all the underbrush and small 
trees, leaving a large straight tree here and there to grow on 
for another twenty-five years, or until it begins to show decay. 
This underbrush and twenty-five years growth of timber is cut 
off close to the ground so that the portion recently cleared is 



We^f d 




f £q^/ 



beautiful open forest, with just enough large trees left to shade 
the ground. The uncut forest is, for the most part, a thicket 
of underbrush and so dense in some places that a bird could 
hardly fly through it. The whole great acreage is laid out in 
roads and lanes. The roads form squares so that in about every 
three-quarters of a mile the turnpike roads come together in 
four corners. Running diagonally across these squares, in each 



286 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

direction, are lanes cut through the forest for the convenience 
of getting out the timber and firewood as the accompanying 
illustration will show. 

The diagram referred to represents four sections of a forest, 
the dark or heavy lines are the turnpike roads, about 100 feet 
wide; the lighter lines represent lanes which are about fifty 
feet wide. These roads and lanes have been laid out with 
engineering skill, and are as straight as a line for miles in every 
direction. Each section or square is staked and numbered. 



''From wood to wood redoubling thunders roll. 
And bellow thro' the vales; the moving storm 
Thickens amain, and loud triumphant shouts. 
And horns shrill-warbling in each glade, prelude 
To his approaching fate" 

Somervile. 

XXVI 

THE CHASE OF THE WILD BOAR 

LOCATING THE GAME — THE COVERT SIDE — THE START THE 

CHASE HALLALl! THE CEREMONY. 

XITILD boars, like foxes, seek food during the night and 
"^ sleep during the day. They kennel almost anywhere 
that they happen to be when morning begins to break. 

Sometimes they go in small droves, that is, the younger 
ones accompanied by some of the older females ; but the males, 
except in the rutting season, seem to prefer to travel and kennel 
alone. 

By daybreak the huntsman, with a well trained hound, goes 
out into the forest to locate a boar; possibly, one of the Baron's 
sons with another hound goes in another direction. We will, 
for the sake of illustration, start with the huntsman and his 
one mute hound, led by a Hne (rather the hound leads the 
huntsman by the line) , along the road, beginning at the south- 
east corner of section No. 445 (See the preceding diagram). 
When half way or more across the east side of the section the 
hound, who is carefully hunting every yard of the way, halts 
and begins to "feather" — that is, his hackles begin to stand on 
end. Without giving tongue he makes a sharp turn to the left. 
The huntsman now examines the road carefullv and finds the 



288 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

slot (foot-marks) of a boar that has crossed the road (they sel- 
dom follow along in, or beside, the road). He breaks some 
bushes and lays them in the road to mark the spot where the 
boar entered the section at 1. The hmitsman and hound then 
move on to F and turn west to E, then south, when part of the 
way from E to H the hound again halts and "feathers" to the 
line of a boar that has crossed there from section 445 to 
section 444. The footprints are again carefully examined and 
noticed to be the same as were those met with at first. 

This place is also marked, and the huntsman and hound 
move on to H, then to G, and D. On the way from D to E the 
hound again liits the line, showing the boar to have left section 
444 and crossed into section 44, then on they go to E and turn 
north until they find that the boar has crossed the road, E — B, 
into section 45. The huntsman goes on around section 45 back 
to E. The hound having found no track going out of section 
45, the game is located as to section. The huntsman now goes 
down the lane from E towards C until he meets the lane from 
F to B. He follows this lane from where they cross each other 
to B. The hound having found no trace of a boar having 
crossed the lane, the huntsman returns home about 9 or 10 
o'clock and reports to the Master that he has located a boar in 
the west quarter of section 45 ; that he is a five or six year old, 
etc., etc. The Master consults a map of the forest and deter- 
mines the method of attack, and where to station the riders and 
the relay of hounds. 

In the meantime, the members and guests of the household 
have come down at any time they feel inclined to find tea, 
coffee, or chocolate, bread and butter and cheese on the dining 
room table. Breakfast will be served at ten-tliirty, when for the 
first time one is likely to meet with the family, except a stray 
one now and again, who is taking the morning cup as you come 
down, or before you have left the dining room. Breakfast is 
over by eleven-thirty, and at twelve everything is in readiness to 



The Chase of the Wild Boar 289 

start, the huntsman and whips are waiting on the lawn with 
the hounds. The Master's hunter and the carriage that is to 
conduct Madame are in waiting at the door. Friends and 
guests are walking their horses about until the moment when 
the Baron and Baronne come out to the carriage. When 
headed by the huntsman and hounds, followed by the riders and 
carriages, the "Equipage" moved towards section 45. 

The Master and huntsman and riders are halted at F. The 
boar's kennel, K, has been approached in such a way that the 
hounds do not cross the trail he made when going to the kennel, 
as they might break away. The hounds are now put in couples, 
two hounds coupled together by a short chain from collar to 
collar, three or four being attached by short lines from the 
coupling chains, to one long line. In this way the relays are 
handled by servants who are stationed at F, C, E, and possibly 
at A and D. The Master then directs a certain number of 
riders — men to whom he has presented the hunt buttons and 
who wear the hunt uniform, and are therefore entitled to wear 
the horn — to station themselves at F, G, B, A, and D. It must 
be remembered that the forest in this part is covered with thick 
undergrowth, so that it is impossible to ride anywhere except 
in the roads and lanes. 

When time has been given for the hunt members and hounds 
to reach their assigned places, the hounds are made fast to a tree 
by the lead line. The Master and huntsman and three or four 
hounds move on via E, two or three riders perhaps accompany- 
ing them. When they arrive at the spot where the bushes lie 
in the road at 4 to mark the spot where the boar crossed the 
road, these two couples of hounds are slipped ; at the same time 
the huntsman rushes in after them on foot, and everyone at this 
point begins to shout or blow horns in order to set the boar on 
foot. 

As before stated, the boars are so conceited as to their own 
prowess, that they often disdain to move, especially after they 



290 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

are four or five years old, and will stand in their tracks 
and kill or wound every hound that comes near them. 
Therefore all this noise and racket to arouse him. It is a very 
dangerous business for huntsmen or Master to go in with the 
hounds to meet a full grown boar. Sometimes such boars have 
to be shot in their tracks as they will not move. It is on this 
account that only two or three couple of selected hounds are 
allowed to go in to help start him. These chosen hounds have 
previously been wounded by a boar and know enough to keep 
out of his range. If, however, they succeed in putting him on 
foot before the other hounds come upon liim he will usually 
run on until overtaken, in which case he stands at bay, although 
he fights desperately at every stand he makes, until in the end 
his keen fighting edge is gone, and the danger of his doing 
harm to the hounds is correspondingly lessened. 

Instantly hounds hit upon the line they begin to give 
tongue, and with the shouting and tooting of horns, we will 
suppose, the boar is set on foot. Like most other game he 
makes one or two short turns, doubling back on his track and 
then sails straight away through the forest. 

As soon as he straightens out for a run, the Master, noting 
the direction, sounds a signal from his horn to liberate the 
hounds at C and F : these run on to join the trusty four who are 
already giving tongue to the line. After doubling back on his 
track, somewhat as shown in the illustration, the boar crosses 
the road into the section 44 at 5. 

Of course the riders stationed at E and B are on the lookout 
and as he crosses tliis road, they sound an alarm on their horns. 
A few moments later the boar is seen by those stationed at A 
and E, as he crosses the lane A — E into the southern quarter 
of section 444, when the hounds, at A and B, are shpped and 
rush through the forest to join the chase. 

The riders at F rush down the road towards E. From 
C thev ride down the lane towards E. From B and A they ride 



Tlie Chase of the Wild Boar 291 

down the lanes to the centre of the section. Meanwhile the 
riders stationed at E and D view the boar crossing out of 
section 44 into section 444. The remaining hounds, at D and 
E, are now slipped and the riders are racing at the top of their 
speed southwards, cheered on by the riders at G and H, who 
have viewed the game, leaving section 444 at 6 going South, — 
and the chase is on. 

There is little or no jumping, but the riding at times is at 
a pace little short of steeplechasing. 

The wild boar runs remarkably straight when once really 
away, and for the next two or three hours you may have your 
fill of galloping on and ever on before he comes to bay. 

Instantly he stops, the hounds change their baying to bark- 
ing. This first halt lasts but a few minutes, the huntsman or 
Master rushes in to see if there are any killed or wounded 
hounds. If so, some one with a horn is left in charge. The 
boar having recovered his "second wind," again rushes away for 
another twenty minutes or half an hour, halts again and once 
more proceeds to give battle to his old tormenters, then on 
again for ten minutes, and another stand. Again he is on 
foot, but more slowly now. When he halts again it will, in all 
probability, be his last stand. 

Hounds are baying and barking at his heels as he plods 
wearily on. Now the riders cheer on the pack "Hallali ! Hallali ! 
Hallali !" The Master dismounts with short sword in hand and 
going up amongst the hounds dis^^atches the boar with a quick 
thrust, just back of the elbow joint, that pierces liis heart. 

The wounded hounds are looked after, needle and thread 
being used to sew up their wounds, lint and bandages to dress 
them, and a wagon, that answers for an ambulance, is soon at 
hand to carry them to the kennel hospital, where they are as 
faithfully attended as a person would be, and made much of 
by every member of the Baron's household. 

The funeral obsequies are a most ceremonious affair. The 



292 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

Master sounds the death rally that calls together stray riders 
and hounds. A gun is also fired as a signal to those who may 
be out of hearing of the horn. 

The boar's carcase is now brought out in the highway or 
open grass plot, and the hunt servants attend to taking off the 
pelt, head and feet. When the pelt has been removed it is 
again spread over the carcase and the funeral ceremony 
"L'Hallah — la curee" begins. In the meantime the ladies, 
who have accompanied the chase in carriages and carts, come 
on with wine and cold meats, etc., and a general visiting and 
congratulation goes on. 

Twelve men in uniform, each carrying a horn that encircles 
the body, as already described, stand facing the carcase, six 
on one side and six on the other. On the other two sides stand 
rows of spectators, completing the circle. 

First the six men on one side play the first line of the 
death song, the other six play the next line and so on alter- 
nately through the song, the horns being purposely keyed to 
make the music harmonious. 

How beautiful it sounds echoed and re-echoed through the 
great silent forest ! Altogether the scene is quite indescribable. 
The hounds, meanwhile, are standing in the circle between the 
musicians and baying as only French boarhounds can. 

When the last verse is being rendered the huntsman steps 
to the carcase and, taking the boar by the ears, moves the head 
right and left as if it were ahve, until the hounds are quite be- 
side themselves with eagerness to pounce upon it. 

As the last notes of the last line die away an attendant 
removes the head and pelt and at a signal from the huntsman, 
every hound rushes in. "Halt!" shouts the huntsman, when 
every hound has his nose within a foot of the prey, and every 
hound stops and moves not a muscle, so well are they trained. 
When the lot have their position, twenty odd, with noses point- 
ing towards their game and not two feet away, the huntsman 



The Chase of the Wild Boar 



293 



cries, "Charge" ; and no sooner said than done, every hound has 
his teeth fastened into the carcase, and the tug of war begins. 
While the snapping and snarling pack are surging first one 
way and then the other, now losing hold and recovering it 
again, piece by piece, joint by joint, the parts give way and 
are devoured. Amid this scene the crowd sings the death song 
as it had been previously played. The special words and music 
of Baron de Dorlodot's hunt are given herewith. 



Et gaie.ment le verre en mam Buvons aux cha»J 



» ft m 



^ 



^ 



.seurs Chanions en choeur De no 3 chants que le re. 



.frain Di . se des ve.newrs la noble ar.deur Le aangli. 



^ 



FE 



I" p r nrl r r r 



er full bruyammeni. Ei du hallier sort preatement Sur son che. 



r ^ r P ir'pn nf r ririT' ^ 



-val au grand galop II est sui.vi par Dorlo .dot. 

Sometimes it is too late to undertake this ceremony in the 
woods far from home, and the boar is carted home and laid 
out upon the lawn in front of the kennels. A bonfire is kindled 
and torches are lighted for additional illumination to the scene. 

When it is all over and the hounds have been kenneled, we 
return to the house to discuss the run over and over again as 
we sit about the hospitable board. 




Baron de Dorlodot's Hunt Button 



^'The prudent huntsman, therefore, will supply 
With annual, large recruits his broken pack 
And propagate their kind; as from the root 
Fresh scions still spring forth, and daily yield 
New blooming honours to the parent-tree/' 

Somervile. 

XXVII 

WILD STAG HUNTING IN FRANCE 

A DAY WITH THE MARQUIS DE CORNULIER^S FRENCH HOUNDS 

TAKING THE STAG IN A LAKE A MOST EXCITING DAY^S 

SPORT. 

rpHE wild stags of France are very similar to the wild red 
^ deer of the Devon and Somerset country in England. 
They are much larger than the common red deer of North 
America, and but little smaller than the elk of the Rockies, 
which animal they resemble very much. 

They are located, and the chase is started with a few hounds, 
joined by relays as the stag gets well away. Very much as 
already described in the chapter on Wild Boar Hunting. 

Through the kindness of Baron de Dorlodot, the writer was 
enabled to participate in the chase with two celebrated packs of 
staghounds in France. 

Our first day to stag was with the celebrated pack of pure 
French hounds, owned by the Marquis de Cornulier. These 
were certainly the most musical pack the writer has ever heard. 
They are said to have originally been produced by a cross 



Wild Stag Hunting in France 295 

between the bloodhound and the greyhound, or possibly the 
greyhound was in some cases used as the sire. At any rate, 
they resemble the greyhound in conformation quite as much, if 
not more, than they do the bloodhound. They are even more 
intelligent-looking than the average English foxhound. Even 
the celebrated Grafton or Pytchley hounds in England that 
are noted for most musical tongues are not to be compared 
with this pack of French hounds for music. 

The stag, in tliis particular chase, kept twisting and doub- 
ling his track, not going more than a mile in any one direction, 
until finally, as is customary, he took to water (a small pond 
of some twenty or thirty acres) . 

The shores for the most part were fringed with cat-tails, 
marsh grass and flags. What a sight it was! My pen seems 
entirely unable to describe the scene. The stag was quite fresh 
when he entered the pond; the hounds, however, were right at 
his heels, and twenty-five couples went plunging over the bank 
— a drop of three or four feet — in the most fearless style that 
can be imagined ; all giving tongue, and the lot of them swim- 
ming as fast as possible after their game. Their music, as I 
have said, was uncommonly melodious when on the land, but 
out on the water it was even more so, and there was plenty 
of it. Across the pond the stag takes to a patch of thick grow- 
ing rushes, which close in behind him, and shut out the hounds 
as they are unable to touch their feet on the bottom or penetrate 
the maze by swimming. They finally go ashore in open water. 
The stag, meanwliile, is hidden in the rushes. The hounds are 
now sent in from shore, the huntsman wading through the break 
to encourage them on. In ten or fifteen minutes, out goes 
the stag into the pond again, the hounds standing on the shore 
plunge in after him, and once more the "heavenly music" fills 
valley, hill and forest for miles around. Forward and back, 
up and down the pond swims the deer, with the same stately air 
and majestic carriage of the head as he had on land, and 



296 TJie Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

ploughing through the water like a steam tug, with forty or 
more hounds swimming after him. Thus the chase went on, 
the stag liiding in the rushes, only to be driven out again with 
the clamorous pack in his wake. Once he came out in open 
water, and ran for twenty or thirty rods inland, a portion of the 
pack right at his heels ; but fatigued and heavy with the water, 
he saw tliis move was a mistake and returned again into the 
pond. 

Nearly three hours were those hounds taking that deer 
after he reached the water ; they were about two hours upon his 
trail before that. It was dark by this time, but a bonfire lit up 
the scene, and the funeral dirge was sounded, the hounds giving 
tongue the while. When the last honours had been paid to the 
stag and the story of the chase and the endurance of the hounds 
had been recounted in song, we said farewell to one af the most 
exciting days' chase the writer ever participated in. 

After the two days' wild boar hunting with the Baron de 
Dorlodot's hounds, and the day with the Marquis de Cornulier's 
staghounds, just described, it was arranged that we should 
spend the fourth and last day of the writer's visit on tliis occa- 
sion in following the staghounds of the Marquis de Chambray, 
some twenty miles distant. 

"For," said mine host, "the Marquis de Chambray is the 
most noted Master of hounds in France, and his hounds are the 
direct descendants of the Royal pack of King Louis XI. They 
are entirely different from any other hounds, and I should not 
like you to return without having a day with them." 

"But twenty miles is too far to go to a meet." 

"We will go in the automobile. I will wire to a liveryman 
in the neighbourhood to meet us with a two-wheeled cart, and 
we will see what we can, driving along the roads and lanes of 
the forest." 

The next day, just as the clock had gone eleven, we started 
for the meet, which was at noon and twenty miles away. 



Wild Stag Hunting in France 297 

The Baron de Dorlodot is a very Jehu to drive, and he sent 
the machine flying over the beautiful roads at the rate of forty 
miles per hour for over a good part of the journey. It was a 
glorious ride, and the writer's first experience in a conveyance 
of this kind. All the time there kept running in his 
mind the words of Sheridan's famous ride to Winchester. 
Eleven-thirty-three! and the Marquis de Chambray only five 
miles away. 

We arrived at the meet in time for a bit of lunch at a farm- 
house, where we were introduced to the venerable Master and 
several of the prominent members of the chase, and with time 
to inspect the hounds before going on to covert. 

Whatever may be said of the decline of athletic sports in 
France or the gradual disappearance of the famous Royal hunt- 
ing establishments of the country, still the Normans may point 
with pride to a number of gentlemen who have preserved, to 
the present time, the ardent love of the chase, and who take 
pride in conducting the same in the brilliant costumes, and 
according to the usages and traditions, of former times. First 
among the number must be mentioned this famous Master of 
staghounds, the Marquis de Chambray. During his Master- 
ship up to the day of our visit, January 24th, '91, he had taken 
his nineteen hundred and eighth stag. Although his hair is as 
white as snow, he seems as hale and hearty as most men of half 
his years. In respect to the ancient custom of the chase, he 
still wears deerskin breeches, tanned with hair on, as may be 
seen in the accompanying illustration. It is claimed by the 
members of the hunt, that should any of the famous hunting 
Kings of France come to life, they could find little to criticise 
in the methods of locating the game, the chase itself or the 
breeding and management of the hounds; furthermore, this 
most affable gentleman is held up as an example of the highest 
type of the French nobility of the old regime. 

We must hasten on to notice the hounds, for they are hardly 



298 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

less celebrated than their indomitable Master. After lunch, 
the writer was taken in hand by Monsieur Roger Laurent, 
nephew to the Marquis de Chambray, for a proper introduction 
of their celebrated pack of hounds and a bit of their interesting 
history. 




Marquis de Cornulier's Hunt Button 



"Resolved to die. 
He fears no more'^ 

XXVIII 

A DAY WITH THE MARQUIS DE CHAMBRAY'S 

HOUNDS 

THE WHITE HOUNDS OF THE KING STARTING THE LORDLY STAG 

A PERCHERON STALLION IN HARNESS — HALLALl! HAL- 

LALl! — THE 1908th STAG — IN DEFENCE OF THE CHASE. 

T T was during the reign of Louis XI, who came to the throne 
-*- in 1461," said Commandant Roger Laurent, "that this par- 
ticular breed of hounds originated. King Louis XI received 
from a poor gentleman a certain white dog, called 'Souliard,' 
and it was from this celebrated dog, that the famous race, ever 
since known as 'The White Hounds of the King,' descended."* 

Louis XII continued in the same line, and so on down to the 
reign of Charles IX, who published a book on hunting, and 
could not say enough in praise of this race of dogs. 

Henry IV of England was so pleased with the working of 
these hounds, that he introduced the blood into his own Royal 
pack. James I of England took over a pack of them, and also 

*It is said in the history of the times, according to an article 
in "L^ Sport Universal,'"' that on account of the way they distinguished 
themselves above other hounds in the chase, the King decided to keep 
no others. 



300 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

commanded certain French gentlemen to go to England to 
teach the lords and nobles of that country the true principles of 
stag hunting. 

Under Louis XIII the Royal hounds consisted of two 
packs. They were known as the "Great White dogs of the 
King," and the "Small White dogs of the King." The great 
stag hunter, King Louis XIV, had a hundred of these hounds, 
and under Louis XV they numbered one hundred and thirty- 
two. 

These hounds are mostly white, with light fawn markings, 
of medium size. They seem to be a distinct family, as they 
have little or no resemblance to either the present French or 
English hounds. Some of them seem to show the effects of in- 
and-in breeding, but as a rule, they are a very uniform and 
beautiful lot, that are worth going a long distance to see. 

Luncheon and the inspection of the hounds over, the vener- 
able Master sounds the horn as a signal for moving on to covert, 
and we look about for the two-wheeled cart, which the Baron 
de Dorlodot said he would wire to have in waiting. Imagine 
the writer's surprise to see the Baron making for a big, lumber- 
ing, two-wheeled cart, a sort of gig; at least it had a top let 
down for the occasion, and was hung on platform springs. The 
wheels of this cart were quite heavy enough for a farm wagon, 
the shafts were large poles of natural second growth oak, while 
between them was a great white Percheron stallion, over six- 
teen hands high, who would weigh something like sixteen hun- 
dred pounds. The trap was about half that weight and the 
three occupants added at least five hundred more. The turnout 
figured out something like this, a sixteen hundred pound horse 
to a thirteen hundred pound load. 

"Fancy," said the writer to himself, "our trying to keep the 
pace of a pack of hounds after deer, in such a turnout as this!" 
The whole thing seemed such a burlesque, that the writer never 
expected to see even the tail of a crippled hound. He felt sure 




THE MARQUIS DE CHAMBRAY 



The Marquis de Chmyibray's Hounds 301 

he could get on quite as well, and probably quite as fast and a 
great deal more comfortably on foot. Fortunately, he kept 
most of these thoughts to himself, but he evidently said or 
looked enough to call from the Baron, "You shall see." 

The driver perched himself upon an improvised seat on the 
dashboard, his feet braced against the crossbar of the shafts, 
while the genial Baron and the writer occupied the blanket- 
covered seat behind him. The traces were very slack and when 
this great stalhon went into the collar, the conveyance started 
with a jerk that nearly upset us backwards. 

We followed along slowly in the procession. 

Meantime, the relays of hounds and riders had gone on to 
take up their respective stations, similar to the method described 
in starting the chase of the wild boar, two or three couple only 
remaining with the Master, in charge of one of the hunt serv- 
ants. These hounds, in England, are called "Tufters," and are 
the most trusty and obedient hounds of the pack. These forests 
are full of deer, therefore it is necessary to single out and get 
the one to be hunted well away, before letting on the pack. 

The stags of full age are the ones to be hunted. Such a 
one is located in the early hours of the morning, when, like the 
wild red deer of England, or the wild boar of France, he has 
retired from his feeding ground to a quiet retreat in the forest, 
there to enjoy his cud and sleep, sometimes alone, but more 
often in company of a number of other stags, or the younger 
members of the tribe. 

To single out a warrantable stag from the number, and set 
him well away with the "Tufters" to his line, requires, in these 
great forests, great skill and woodcraft. 

Presently, we arrive at a place where there are deer tracks 
crossing the road in such numbers as to suggest a flock of 
sheep. The Master invites us to inspect the footprints made by 
the stag we are following. Ladies and gentlemen alight from 
their carriages, and many of the riders are also shown these 



302 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

slots. This adds greatly to the interest and enables all to feel 
that they are personally engaged in the chase. Often a gentle- 
man or lady who is driving to hounds, is of great assistance to 
the hunt. These footprints are very carefully studied. It is 
surprising how some of the ladies can carry in their mind's eye 
most accurate details as to size and shape, and slight variations 
between right and left fore-foot, or a flaw in the shell of a liind- 
foot, in fact the slightest irregularity in anything about the 
footmarks. 

While we are carefully examining these details, the relays 
of hounds and hunters have stationed themselves as the Master 
has directed. At a signal from the Master the "Tufters" are 
slipped, and away they go into the forest, cheered on by voice 
and horn to the lair of their game. 

"What Ho! There! Look to our stallion!" No longer can 
he be called a lumbering cart horse, for at the sound of the 
horns, he rears in his track until it looks as if he would surely 
turn somersault backwards into our laps. This accounted 
for the unusually long traces. Had he been properly hitched, 
something must have given way at this extraordinary per- 
formance. 

Our driver was wearing a smock coat, blouse, or whatever 
it may be called. It was puckered across the breast, and 
gathered in about the low fitting neck, and came well down 
below the knees. From beneath its ample folds he now draws 
what in the Western country would be called a "black snake" 
lash (a limber black leather cutting- whip) about four feet 
long, which he flourished about our heads with a crack like the 
report of a gun. At this, the great stallion comes down to the 
earth again; then, with a wild challenging neigh, that fairly 
shakes the forest, the noble beast springs into a canter with his 
first stride. Talk about riding on a gun-carriage of light 
artillery, or on a fire engine at full gallop, or being run away 
with in a lumber wagon over a corduroy road, all of which the 



The 3Iarquis de Chamhray's Hounds 303 

writer knows by experience to be of a stirring nature! — well, 
this two-wheeled French gig with a wild stallion to draw it, 
and a very devil of a driver with a black snake behind him, 
was gun-carriage, fire engine, and a runaway lumber wagon 
combined. 

Out from their retreat broke at least twenty wild and 
startled deer. It was as grand a sight as ever a huntsman 
could wish to see. Among the lot, his head with towering 
antlers sweeping high, came forth the lordly stag. What a 
sight ! The females and younger members of the herd bounded 
away, but not the monarch. Stately and proud, he moved 
along as became his station. The woods, meanwhile, were 
ringing with shouts of men, tooting of horns, and baying of 
hounds, to which music our stallion set up such a roar as would 
shame a lion. 

The writer has witnessed many stirring sights in the forests 
after the lordly moose, caribou and deer, but the carriage and 
gentlemanly bearing of this noble stag, was a sight never to 
be forgotten. It recalled an old school-day couplet among the 
favourite selection for speaking pieces. 

"Ho! cowards! have ye left me to meet liim all alone?" 
Thus our grand, our haughty, our noble game, disdaining to 
run, walked across the opening and disappeared among the 
dense underbrush. On came the hounds, joined by relays from 
different directions. 

Crack ! Crack ! went the black snake, and the chase was on. 
What a ride! it was bad enough along the forest road. We 
entered a lane with such a sharp turn to the right that the left 
wheel of the cart went spinning around in mid air. There were 
no carriages in front of us, and the way that great wild 
stallion snatched that two-wheeled trap down tliis lane, was, I 
am sure, a record breaker. Farm wagons had cut great ruts 
in soft places during the wet season. Now it was dry, hard 
and lumpy. In some places the undergrowth met over the 



304 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

centre of the lane, for which we had to duck our heads and be 
sharp about it, too. Dead sticks and limbs blown from trees, 
lay here and there across the track. Some of them crushed be- 
neath our chariot wheels, others sent us in mid air above the 
seat, which picked us up now and again in a way to loosen our 
back hair. On we rode, hanging on for dear life. We saw 
it all, at least, we believe we saw as much of the run as any 
one mounted rider. 

Hallali! Hallali! We were driving more slowly now. At 
last we saw the stag, not two rods awaj^ moving slowly along 
parallel to the way we were going. His head was still carried 
erect, but not in the jaunty light air as at the beginning. His 
crown of antlers was getting heavy. Thirty hounds were bark- 
ing and baying in his wake. The end was near at hand. He 
halts, throws up liis head in his same lordly f asliion, and stands 
as motionless as a bronze statue. "Hallali! Hallali!" shout 
the riders, "Hallali! Hallali!" All fear seems to have left the 
stag. He is entirely oblivious to everything and everybody 
about him. He looks as unconcerned as the great bronze stag 
on the lawn in front of the chateau de Chambray. He seems 
to be listening for some far away sound in a dreamy sort of 
way. In fact, he seemed, as no doubt he was, in a sort of cata- 
leptic state, that a kind providence provides for all in the 
face of death. This is his last stand. The Master inquires 
who would like to dispatch him. A young man in scarlet and 
wearing the hunt buttons of the Marquis de Chambray quickly 
dismounts and walks straight up to the stag, who turns not nor 
moves a muscle. The notes of the death song from the accom- 
panying horns tell the great forest for miles about, that the 
noble spirit of the stag has paid the debt. The stag is then 
brought out on a beautiful grassy mound, where the roads 
and highway of the forest meet, and the beautiful ceremony 
about the carcase, as already described, takes place. 

Congratulations, a sandwich, a bit of cold meat, and bottles 



The Marquis de Chainhray's Hounds 305 

of wine come forth in great abundance from some mysterious 
source and employ the ladies in giving and the gentlemen in 
receiving. 

The happiest man in all the crowd was one Yankee, as 
you could easily tell by the expression of his face, as he started 
for home with a boar's head and pelt from the Baron de Dor- 
lodot, taken in the chase the day before, the foot of the stag 
taken in the pond, from the Marquis de Cornulier, and the 
head, pelt, and a foot of stag number one thousand nine hun- 
dred and eight,* from the ]Marquis de Chambray. These 
trophies were the next day put in pickle by a taxidermist in 
London, and thus taken to America to be mounted. They now 
grace the walls of a modest little home, where the owner re- 
gards them as the most priceless trophies of his collection. 

As the writer looks back upon the many glorious days he 
has spent vAih. horse and hound, guide and gun, yacht and 
paddle, his only regret is that so few of his countrymen know 
the meaning of it all. He feels that in comparison with most 
men he has lived a hundred years. 

"Be it fair or foul, come rain or shine. 
The joys I have possessed in spite of fate are mine. 
Not heaven itself o'er the past hath power, 
What has been, has been, I have had my hour/' 

The general idea in America seems to be that only the 
wealthy can indulge in such sports. This is a mistaken notion 
altogether, as the writer is a living example to the contrar^^ 
The men who seem to get the most out of life are not the 

*The illustrious marquis celebrated the capture of his two thousandth 
stag in 1902. He was then over seventy years old and when the writer 
last visited the Baron de Dorlodot, in 1903, had taken his two thousand 
and twenty-second stag. 



306 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

wealthy or the idle rich, but the hard working business men, 
who steal a half holiday whenever they can. If it is in them, 
they'll find the way. 

There is no country in the world where one can find so 
many men and women who possess the financial independence 
to enable them to indulge in such pastimes. The lamentable 
thing about it is that as the rich grow richer, at the same time 
they seem to be giving way more and more to idle luxuries. 
It is only a case of history repeating itself. Still, strange as 
it may seem, some well meaning men and women are doing all 
they can to discourage the chase in every form. They don't 
want the foxes killed, nor the horses ridden so hard as is neces- 
sary to go the pace. At the death of a chicken-tliief fox they 
rave. If a rider is injured, it "serves him right." 

The strange thing about this dumb animal worship is that 
the more dumb and helpless the animal is, the more some people 
gush. There is no sentiment in human nature so blind as exag- 
gerated heart sentiment, which is the usual source whence 
comes a lot of sentimental bosh and fairy tales in the form of 
nature studies. A morbid feminine instinct seems to possess 
some effeminate men and over sentimental women, not toward 
the human but toward the dumb race. 

We have all heard of the woman who kissed her cow and 
clubbed her husband over the head with the milking stool, 
because he allowed the cow to kick over the pail of milk. "Dear 
old Bossie." "Brutal man." The most consistent dumb animal 
worshipper the writer ever heard of was the chap who could not 
bring himself to eat an oyster, because it would kill the oyster. 
"Bless his precious little heart." Whose heart? Well, help 
yourself. 

The following is given as a sample criticism on the chase. 
It is from a man in a western state. He says he "is shocked at 
the barbarity of the foreign idea of sport." He says he has "a 
choking throb of pity for the hunted, and furthermore that 



The Marquis de Chamhray's Hounds 307 

although the people of the United States may not have reached 
a perfect understanding of the ethics of true sportsmanship, 
they have advanced so far beyond the spirit of the chase as to 
cause pride and gratitude to every citizen among us." 

While the act of taking the life of game is in itself no edify- 
ing sight and is part of the chase very few of the followers ever 
witness or ever take part in, the writer is supremely thankful 
that he has not "advanced so far beyond the spirit of the chase" 
as to have lost the manly courage necessary to pursue it or to 
have advanced so far by our so called "higher civilisation," as 
to have his mind filled with effeminate ideas and ways of think- 
ing. Sentimental sentiment is something very pretty to con- 
template but in this case as usual it goes without logic or 
reason. 

Here is a person living in a western state, where stock-rais- 
ing is the principal industry, holding up his hands in holy 
horror at the death of a stag taken in the chase, and thankful 
that he is in "advanced" America where such things are not 
considered sportsmanlike. At the same time in his own state 
there runs every day of the year a river of blood from the 
throats of innocent domestic animals at the thought of which 
he never turns a hair. How can such persons filled with 
"choking pity" for the death of a stag, bring themselves to eat 
the meat of domestic animals slaughtered, not in mercy to 
those who are left behind, as are the stags and wild boars in the 
forests of France, where they are too numerous for their own 
good, but to be devoured? How can such critics of the chase 
ever eat lamb that has had its frolicking days of innocent play 
in company with a mother brought suddenly to an end by an 
unfeehng barbarous butcher? How can one "choking with 
sentiment" for the hunted, bear to visit a stock farm or lend 
his presence to an Agricultural Fair where he must mingle with 
farmers and butchers whose business on the one hand is to 
rear, on the other to butcher, thousands of "innocent lambs," 



308 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

"pretty pigs," and "darling little calves," that are purposely 
brought into the world by the design of man only to 
have their throats cut and give their Hves up as a sacrifice 
to man? 

There are hundreds of thousands of domestic animals in 
every western state yearly thrown into pens with not one single 
chance for their lives, not one single hope of escape, which 
every sportsman gives to every animal of the chase. In fact 
all animals of the chase are given nearly equal chances and if 
taken are usually outwitted or outgeneralled at their own 
game. 

What would our western critics advise if a delegation of 
farmers adjoining his property should come to him as they 
did to the Baron de Dorlodot and say that if he did not do 
something to keep down the number of wild boars in this for- 
est, they must bring the question to the courts, for they were 
destroying their crops to an unusual extent? Would he say, 
as the Baron de Dorlodot did, "Gentlemen, I am getting old, 
I am now hunting the wild boar two days a week ; I will here- 
after hunt him four days a week and if that does not do, I 
will have to hunt him six daj^s in the week." 

There are some effeminate men and some sentimental 
women who would sooner tie a bit of perfumed ribbon about 
a fox's neck or a fish's tail and let them go again, the one to 
be caught in a steel trap, or to die of starvation or disease, the 
other to be devoured by the larger fishes, than think of tak- 
ing the life of the one by pursuit in the chase or the other by 
the artful casting of the sportsman's fly. 

If the chase is such a degrading factor in the upbuilding 
of national character, then must Merry England be one of the 
most degraded countries in the world, for nowhere in the world 
is the chase so universally indulged in by all classes, and espe- 
cially by the most intelligent, courteous and refined people, 
as in Great Britain. As previously stated there are in 



The Marquis de Chambray's Hounds 309 

England, Ireland and Scotland about four hundred and fifty 
organised packs of hounds ; two hundred packs are for the chase 
of the fox, one hundred and ninety-eight packs for the chase of 
the hare and the remaining number are devoted to the chase 
of the stag, the wild red deer and the otter. Many of these 
packs hunt four and five days a week throughout the entire 
season. 

Among the followers of the chase in England, as in France 
and Germany, are the nobility from the Royal family down. 
In England they are the members of the House of Lords and 
the House of Commons almost to a man; the officers of the 
army from the commander-in-chief to the lowest subaltern; 
the Judiciary, from the Chief Justice to the village pettifog- 
ger; doctors of divinity and doctors of medicine. 

Not only is the chase followed by the aristocracy and 
wealthy classes of England, but the spirit of the chase pervades 
every mother's son and daughter of the Kingdom. If there 
is any single characteristic that dominates all classes in Eng- 
land, it is the spirit of the chase and sports afield. The former 
is but a continuation of the latter when the school and college 
days are over. 

Little England instead of being a backward, demoralised, 
barbarous country, has led the world as an educator and 
civihser. She has accomplished more in these lines to the 
present time than all the rest of the world combined. 

As for the chase making people think and act in a brutal 
or unsportsmanlike manner, as some would incline us to think, 
where, in the history of any other nation or people can be found 
such consideration, such Christian-like conduct as has always 
been shown by the English for their enemies in battle and to 
their foes when vanquished. In these respects Great Britain 
has ever been in the lead of the world. If the English have 
one virtue that outshines all others, one national trait that dis- 
tinguishes them above all others, it is their inherent love for 



310 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

domestic animals. Are these the signs of a degenerate, brutal 
race? 

It may be argued that while all that has been said hereto- 
fore is perfectly true and consistent with well known facts, 
still there remains the death of an innocent creature. If that 
could be eliminated from the chase altogether, or if their taking 
off could be robbed of its cruel feature, as many good people 
view it, the horror of the chase would be less a reproach, so 
that the more sensitive could endorse it. First as to eliminat- 
ing the hunt altogether from the chase, this is done in many 
cases where a trail is laid by someone dragging a rag sprinkled 
with anise oil and assafoetida on the ground. This is better 
than no chase at all. Others hunt the wild fox without stop- 
ping their earths and therefore seldom catch one. This fox 
who kills our chickens and young lambs, the otter who kills 
our finest trout, are most ideal game. For they are thieves 
and vagabonds, and one always feels in their pursuit that an 
outlaw is before him and when at last he is overtaken, that the 
untimely death of Mrs. Farmer's hens or Mr. Farmer's trout 
has been avenged. Some people who sanction the hunting of 
the fox often draw the line at rabbits, wild boar and deer. On 
many occasions it is absolutely necessary to kill off a certain 
portion each year as already shown, and all game preserves are 
hunted on that plan, the oldest stag always being taken except 
when this plan does not keep them down to a number the 
preserve will carry. Then the females are also taken. Still 
there is the question of taking life that stands in the way of 
some good meat-eating people who have probably never made 
a study of the hunted. They do not know, perhaps, that the 
Providence which permits each family to prey on some other 
family or to be preyed upon by some stronger family, has 
included in the plan a special provision for robbing death of 
its horrors and even of its sting. People with oversensitive 
imaginations picture to themselves the horrors of such a death 



The Marquis de Cliamhray's Hounds 311 

from their own, not the animal's standpoint, and make out a 
very blood curdling case. But the truth is that most domestic 
animals suffer more by being caught by a hired man for any 
purpose whatever than does a wild animal that is pursued to* 
its death. 

This provision of animal economy might be questioned if 
it did not likewise apply to man, who, when he is in turn x^ur- 
sued, or when sprung upon by wild animals, experiences the 
same sensation. There are any number of instances on record 
where men have been pounced upon by wild, ferocious animals^ 
and who have escaped with their lives by the timely aid of a- 
friend or guide. These invariably tell us that when the final 
moment came all sense of fear and danger left them and the 
horror of death had no sting whatever. They have recorded 
afterwards how they saw the panther lash his tail and work his 
claws preparatory to the spring. Still their mind was in per- 
fect composure. They had in one instant passed beyond the 
horrors of death and the sense of fear. They report also hav- 
ing experienced the shock and the tearing of the flesh, but feltr 
no pain or discomfort until afterwards, when their normal 
faculties returned. 

Men in battle do the coolest things, acts that pass for hero- 
ism and bravery, when the truth is they have simply passed 
beyond the state where they sense their positions. Men and 
women under conditions of sufficient importance do heroic 
acts, the recollection of which makes them faint away after- 
wards. It is the same unfailing provision of nature that steps- 
in at the right moment in the lives of the hunted, especially 
when taken by pursuit consistent with the creative plan, and 
carries them past the taking off point without a pang. The 
writer, as before stated, believes that it hurts a domestic animal 
more to catch it for any purpose than it does for the hunted 
stag to be pursued to his death. 

I do not think, for instance, the stag whose death the writer 



312 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

described in this chapter had the shghtest fear. He simply 
reahsed the moment had come and faced the conditions without 
a quiver, head erect and eyes that saw all that was going on. 
Tliis stag had been fleeing from real and imaginary enemies 
from the day of his birth, so that the mere act of being pursued 
or fleeing for safety was second nature. He practised all the 
craft of the race as his instinct taught him with a clear head 
and a cool judgment and finally when it did not prove to his 
advantage as it had on all former occasions, he accepted the 
fall and died in his tracks without fear. 

To the writer's mind, there is no way or form of taking 
wild game animals that is so sportsmanlike, so human, and at 
the same time, so consistent with their natural environment, as 
to take them in pursuit. 

What have we in America to compare with the chase in the 
upbuilding of the nation or of individual character? Perhaps 
the western critic would suggest billiards or pool or poker amid 
clouds of tobacco smoke and the reeking odours of the bar, 
in preference to the degrading influence of the chase. He 
might suggest croquet; or if that is too fatiguing for warm 
days, he might prefer a pound of candy and a game of tiddle- 
de-winks under an electric fan. 

No, we don't know how to play in America. The nearest 
most of us come to it after we leave school and college is to buy 
a ticket to the grand stand and shout ourselves hoarse at a lot 
oi hired men playing baseball. It is, to the writer's mind, 
nothing short of a national calamity that we have no game, like 
the chase, suitable for men. We are by this so-called higher 
civilisation, to which the critic points with so much pride, 
degenerating in build, lacking in endurance, stamina, courage, 
nerve, health, nearly everything except book learning that 
goes to the up-building and perpetuity of a noble race. What 
schooling have we in this country to make a true sportsman of 
a boy ? Almost nothing. He will certainly not acquire it in an 



The Marquis de Chamhray's Houiids 313 

American school or college except in a vague sort of a way, 
for as we have already shown only about one college boy in 
twelve goes in for field sports. 

We may grant that it is too bad that even a chicken-thief 
fox or an old stag should contribute his life to this upbuilding, 
but they are only a drop in the bucket compared with the hun- 
dreds of thousands that are butchered daily for the upbuilding 
of our physical natures. And of the two we do not think it 
too much to say that a day's ride to hounds, even if the life of 
dumb animals taken in the chase pays the price, will do more 
for the bodily upbuilding of the followers than all the butchered 
meat that the same number of persons will consume for the 
day. 

It may be argued by some who approve of the healthful 
exercise of horseback riding, but who will not tolerate the chase 
of a dumb animal, that a person might ride fifteen to fifty 
miles four or five days a week on the highway in lieu of the 
chase; hut they won't. A person might walk five to twenty 
miles a day on the highway, as many do in the chase of a ball 
on a golf course, but they won't and probably couldn't if they 
would. Some claim they can follow a golf ball all the after- 
noon with less fatigue than a walk of a few blocks for the sake 
of walking. 

Returning to the horseback rider, he might be permitted to 
take some dogs along for company and make his horse jump 
a few fences and ditches by way of supplying added interest 
to riding for exercise. He might also indulge his hunting 
instincts by riding through a few coverts with a view of starting 
or seeing some game. He might do all these things, hut he 
wont. 

No, there is still lacking that incentive so essential to last- 
ing enjoyment: the indescribable something that produces un- 
flagging interest, is still missing. On the other hand, it is plain 
to anj^one that the followers of the chase grow and thrive by 



314 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

what they feed upon. Men and women crowd to the covert 
side year after year, through youth, manhood and old age, 
principally to see how one more riddle of the chase will unravel. 

It is just at this point that some well meaning people are 
led astray in condemning the chase. They argue that the 
element which leads on the followers of the chase must be the 
act of Idlling something. They straightway condemn the chase 
as a relic of barbarism and the followers as blood-thirsty men 
and women, who have not felt the effects of a higher civilisation, 
in which the critics see themselves. Nothing could be further 
from the truth. So far as the riders are concerned, the death 
of the animal hunted is the incident, not the object, of the 
chase. If this were not the case, one would hardly expect to see 
a hundred men and women banding together with a hundred 
hounds for a hundred hard days' work in the season, on the 
chance of killing one hundred foxes, employing in the mean- 
time a hundred men to look after a thousand horses worth a 
million dollars. No, a hundred cents worth of paris green in 
the hands of a hired man, or a single steel trap in the hands 
of a poacher, would do the killing far more effectually. 

By uniting in the chase the elements of war, with but little 
of its risk and hardships, to the ardour of hunting with all its 
woodcraft and cunning, you have as the result the most interest- 
ing, the most fascinating, the most healthful game that was 
ever invented by man. 

While the chase is the "image of war mthout its guilt," it 
calls for the expression of nearly every manly virtue. It gives 
to the youth courage, self control, nerve, health, and strength. 
It leaves no stain but that comes off in the wash. It gives to 
manhood, hardihood, resolution, and perseverance that carries 
him on to vigorous old age. 

And so it has come to pass that there are to-day thousands 
of men and many women, fifty, sixty, seventy, and even eighty 
years of age, riding to hounds over some of the roughest hunt- 



The Marquis de Chamhray's Hounds 315 

ing countries, riding hard for forty and fifty years after many 
Americans, who see themselves in the "advanced" civilised list, 
have shot their bolts and tumbled into premature graves 
simply because they had no chase to follow, except the chase 
after money, which is too often the only one the American 
knows. In pursuing this, he is generally overtaken and killed 
by it, with half of his days unnumbered. 

Long live the chase, to make men better fitted to live and 
enjoy life as it goes. Long live the chase, to teach men how 
to play and how to play fair. Long live the chase, to make 
men stronger in mind, and healthier in body, and to enable 
them to live their allotted days. Long live the chase, that the 
followers may transmit to the generations to follow the noble 
virtues of a hardy race of masculine men and feminine women. 

Long live the chase! 




Marquis de Chambray's Hunt Button 



"For so do we know it, the Chase, and we hold 
Men better for hunting; the creed 
Of love and good fellowship lives as of old 
And hinds every class into one sacred mould. 
Long, long may it live and succeed.'' 

Poems in Pink. 

XXIX 

RIDE, FAIR AMERICAN: ENGLISHMAN, RIDE 

The following poem was especially written for "The Hunt- 
ing Field With Horse and Hound" by that charming poet- 
huntsman and Master of Hounds, Mr. W. Phillpotts Williams, 
in recollection of a glorious day with the Hursley hounds. 

Come and I'll tell you, I'll tell you a story. 
You who love England and hold her so dear. 

You who are proud of her record of glory. 
Lend me a moment and lend me an ear. 

Down in the vale where the sunlight was streaming. 
Eight in the heart of broad England we met. 

By the old bridge where the river was gleaming, 
Down in the village the gathering was set. 

Thatched the long roofs of the cottages round us. 
Broad was the roadway, and bright was the green. 

Peaceful it looked and contented it found us. 
Nowhere but England could boast such a scene. 



Ride, Fair American: Englisliman, Bide 317 

Hark! There's a crack of a whip at the turning, 
Yonder they join us, "Hounds, gentlemen, please" 

Eighteen sweet couple of hitches, all yearning 
For the game to begin, come up under the trees. 

Sorty and true with an absence of lumber. 

Even in stature with bone to the feet. 
Each was distinct, yet a part of the number. 

Each was a foxhound, and all were a treat. 

Strains from the Belvoir and Quorn interblended, 
Warwickshire's fastest, and Brocklesby's best. 

Right through the pack the tradition descended. 
Work was the watchword, and work was the test. 

Near in the crowd, sitting well on their horses. 
Two good horsemen stood still by the way. 

Each loved the chase and the jjluck it enforces. 
One was in scarlet and one was in grey. 

He in the pink was an Englishman, leading 
The life of a sportsman and true to his creed. 

Born of the best, and a type of his breeding. 
Master of hounds and part of his steed. 

He in the grey was from over the ocean. 

Born in America, bred in the West, 
Keen for a hunt, he'd a very good notion 

Of riding to hounds with the hardest and best. 

Hark! there's a note of the horn, and a holloa, 

Reynard goes gallantly over the grass. 
Follow them, follow them, follow them, follow. 

Onward they gallop, and onward they pass. 



318 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 

Onward they gallop, those hitches so lightly. 
Never a hound's left behind in the gorse. 

Comely and Crafty, and Sportive and Sprightly, 
Break at the head of the galloping force. 

Forward away where the pastures are gleaming. 
Set in the heart of broad England so fair. 

Forward away where the sunlight is streaming. 
Forward away with the galloping pair. 

Forward away for twelve miles they are moving. 
Every hound up in her place in the pack. 

Every hound working, and every hound proving 
The worth of her sort on the grass covered track. 

What, have they got him? Yes, Nosegay has nailed him. 
Gamely he faced it, this fox in the vale; 

One and another they all have assailed him, 

Tear-him-and-eat-him-hounds. All within hail. 

Who has the brush? Who shall claim it, my masters? 

He in the scarlet or he in the grey? 
Both went so well and kept clear of disasters. 

Both went their best through the best of the day. 

Each has a look. Then the Englishman takes it. 

Handing it over in turn with a smile. 
Then again touching the trophy he makes it 

Clear that the other is welcome the while. 

Yes, there is something that baffles the telling. 
Men of the chase will know well what I mean, 

Something too deep for mere writing and spelling, 
Something mysterious, something unseen. 



Ride, Fair American: Englishman, Ride 319 

Something that touches our hearts when it finds us. 

Moving us always to gallop and ride. 
That brings out the best of our natures and binds us 

Closer together, and fills us with pride. 

Come then, fair sportsmen from over the waters. 

Join in the gallop and ride in the race. 
Join in our sports with your sons and your daughters. 

All will find good in the ways of the chase. 

Come and go on with the march of the nations. 

Like the two sportsmen, move on side by side. 
Guided in all by the best aspirations. 
Ride, fair American: Englishman, ride. 



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